Kit Noland met Quinn and me as we stepped out of the elevator. She was already dressed for Christmas in hunter-green wool trousers and a cherry-red turtleneck. A necklace with tiny chili pepper lights occasionally winked red and green. The holiday outfit didn’t go with her all-business demeanor. She was holding a mug of black coffee and she’d clicked off party mode.
“Grant told me before he left for the newsroom that Prescott was found dead downstairs in his wine cellar,” she said as the elevator door closed behind us. “They’re trying to keep it quiet so no one at the party finds out.”
She was speaking a mile a minute, already in overdrive. Writing the story in her head. I knew from experience that she was looking for the lede. Once she got that—figured out how or where to begin—she told me that the piece more or less wrote itself.
I was nodding as she spoke, but my mind was racing, too. Would anyone in the media care that I had been the last person to talk to Prescott before he died? Hopefully not. Prescott had left too big an imprint on everything he’d touched, the empire he’d built, for anyone to bother with a minor detail like me.
“I know Bobby’s there because I can’t find either him or Win Turnbull. Why were you two down there? What’s going on?”
Already Kit knew about Prescott from Grant Lowry and he had found out from Alex. As they say, three can keep a secret if two are dead. The Averys were never going to be able to contain this news and certainly not spin it the way they wanted to, that Prescott died peacefully at home in his sleep surrounded by his family. Instead, I could just imagine the headlines: Billionaire Philanthropist and Media Mogul Prescott Avery Dies Alone at His Own Party.
“You’re going to have to talk to someone in the family,” I said. “They want to handle this.”
She looked taken aback. “Oh,” she said. “I see. A gag order, huh?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t need to. Either way, that shouldn’t include talking to me.”
“They didn’t give us a list,” I said.
“I guess I’d better call Grant and let him know. And see what I can worm out of my husband once he shows up … though it probably won’t be much. I love him to death, but he doesn’t cut me any breaks.” Her eyes narrowed. “Was there something suspicious about Prescott’s death? Is that the reason you’re not supposed to talk about it?”
Quinn and I exchanged glances.
“It’s probably better if you ask Bobby or Clay your questions,” Quinn said. “We ought to be getting home.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, giving him a sharp nod. “Look, the optics are already bad, Prescott dying at his own party on Thanksgiving weekend. Not talking about it is only going to make things worse.”
“I doubt Prescott was thinking about the optics when he died,” Quinn said.
“You know perfectly well what I mean.” She glared at him and then turned to me. “Never mind, then. Luce, talk to me. Whatever happened, the Averys’ own newspaper needs to report the story honestly.”
I hesitated. “I, uh … think you should ask Clay, Kit.”
She shot me a look of dismay. I wasn’t going to help her, either.
“Prescott Avery’s death is already going to be a big story. If there’s something weird or odd about the way he died, it’s going to turn into a soap opera drama. And if you were downstairs, you know something.”
“We sort of got an ultimatum,” I said. “They want to do all the talking.”
“As bad as that?” She was mad.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Look, can I ask you something?”
“Yeah, sure. Shoot. I’ll answer you if I can.” Still pissed off.
She finished her coffee and set the mug down on a windowsill ledge with a sharp click. Outside the window, the gardens and sprawling terraces were now unsubstantial dark shapes on a darker landscape.
“How many people knew Prescott was probably going to announce that he wanted to sell the Trib at tomorrow’s board meeting?”
She looked surprised by the question. Then she exploded. “Are you kidding me? Every newsroom in the world leaks like a damn sieve and we’re no different. Everyone and his grandmother knew about that rumor. It’s all anyone was talking about this afternoon—at least among the Tribbies who were at the party.” She paused as the puzzle pieces slid into place. “So there is something to Prescott’s death, isn’t there?”
I remained mute, but by now she knew as well as I did: How convenient for those who didn’t want to sell that Prescott died before that meeting. In other words, a lot of people who’d been at today’s feijoada wouldn’t be unhappy that Prescott Avery could no longer force a sale of the Washington Tribune.
A waitress walked past the three of us, picked up Kit’s coffee mug, and nodded, a polite smile on her face that said we were overstaying our welcome. The party was over.
I felt Quinn’s hand on the small of my back. “Time to go,” he said.
“Wait.” Kit held up her hand. “At least tell me what you were doing down there. I’m sure there’s no gag order on that.”
Quinn flashed me a warning look. “Prescott invited me downstairs because he wanted to buy some of our wine,” I said, dodging her real question. “I’m sure now the deal is off, so it doesn’t matter anymore. And I accidentally left my phone in the wine cellar so Quinn and I went back to get it.”
“You were the ones who found him. And he was already dead.” She spoke like these were established facts, not questions requiring answers.
I nodded. “I came upstairs to find Clay, but I ran into Bobby and Win first,” I said. “We left after the family showed up. I’m sure Clay can tell you everything else that you need to know.”
“Like cause of death, which would be useful information.” She pulled her phone out of her trouser pocket and pushed a button. Speed dial. “I’ll ask him when I see him. And thanks for at least telling me that.”
As Quinn and I walked down the hallway I heard her say, “Grant. Talk to me. What the hell is going on? Who’s lowering the cone of silence on Prescott’s death—Clay or Scotty?”
Quinn gave me a sideways look and shook his head.
“I can’t lie,” I said when we were out of earshot. “You know that. Certainly not to Kit. When we’re together it’s like our minds meld. If I hadn’t told her, she would have just sucked the information out of my brain like she always does. I can do the same with her. Besides, do you honestly believe the Averys are going to be able to keep what really happened out of the press? Their own newspaper? Kit wouldn’t stand for publishing a false story and neither would Grant. The Washington Tribune wins Pulitzers every year because of their tenacious, honest reporting. Not even Prescott Avery is going to get a break.”
“We shouldn’t be in the middle of this.”
“We are in the middle of this. We found Prescott and I was the last person to be with him before he died.”
“Lucie, Quinn. I didn’t realize you were still here.”
We froze. Neither of us had noticed Victoria Barkley, who was striding down the hall toward us, a startled expression on her face.
Had she overheard our conversation? Had any of the staff overheard us? I flashed a quick smile and hoped I didn’t look as if she’d discovered us stealing the family silver.
Victoria’s cheeks were bright pink and her shoulder-length blond hair, which had been in a stylish updo the last time I saw her, was tousled and windblown, as if she’d just been outside.
I relaxed. She didn’t look as if she’d been paying attention to what we were saying. Maybe because, like a lot of party guests, she was a bit drunk. Or maybe because she was preoccupied with what was going on downstairs while she was still up here. As if she read my thoughts about her disheveled appearance, she pulled a couple of hairpins from her hair and used them to tuck the loose strands back into place.
“I was saying good-bye to what I thought were the last of our guests,” she said. “It’s quite cold outside now. And windy.”
“We were just leaving.” Quinn sounded apologetic. “And we can see ourselves out. No need to trouble you.”
Victoria knew about Prescott. Clay would have told her and she had been on her way to the elevator to join the others in the wine cellar when she stumbled upon us.
“Nonsense.” She still seemed rattled. “Of course I’ll walk you to the door.”
Our silence was awkward as she retraced her steps and led Quinn and me to the elegant foyer. From one of the alcoves, the armored knight seemed to watch us through slitted eyeholes.
What were Quinn and I going to say? Thanks for a great party? Condolences on the death of your fiancé’s stepfather? Nothing at all?
Surely she realized we had been downstairs with Prescott. She had been with Clayton before Bobby brought him downstairs. She would know.
“If there’s anything we can do,” I said, “please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Her eyes flickered understanding and I was glad we weren’t going to keep up the charade that nothing had happened.
“And, uh, about Kellie.” Quinn held out his hands, palms up. I knew Kellie’s raw grief and tears had unnerved him. Any woman’s tears unnerved him. I’d learned that from experience. “Please tell her she doesn’t need to come to work tomorrow … actually, not to show up until she’s ready. Let her know to take all the time she needs, could you?”
That was sweet; I was glad he’d been the one to say it.
Last spring Kellie had told her parents that if she didn’t take a year off from her studies at Harvard she would have a nervous breakdown. Scotty wanted her to stick it out—Averys weren’t quitters—but Bianca had prevailed, worried about her daughter’s mental health, so the compromise had been that Kellie would stay home for one year as long as she returned to school and graduated the following year.
Though Scotty wanted her to spend what would have been her senior year in the Trib’s newsroom learning the family business, Kellie showed up at our vineyard to ask for a job as a cellar rat. We weren’t looking for anyone, but Quinn hired her on the spot. She was terrific—smart, capable, with good instincts. Francesca Merchant, who ran our tasting room, managed to cajole her into pouring wine and doing tastings on the weekend. Our clients loved her. Despite the fact Scotty and Bianca had never said anything to either Quinn or me, we knew their daughter’s employment choice for her gap year hadn’t gone down well at home. What they didn’t know was that Kellie had no intention of returning to Harvard. She wanted to go to France and study winemaking.
She’d been plying Quinn and me with so many questions, asking our advice, that one evening after everyone had left for the day I asked her if that’s what was going on. Her eyes grew wide.
“Please,” she’d said, “promise me you won’t tell my parents. I think my father would disown me if he knew. I’m supposed to go into the family business, become a journalist, not a winemaker.”
“Of course Quinn and I won’t say anything. But you’re going to have to tell them sooner or later,” I’d said.
“I know. I’ll do it. But not right now.”
And we’d left it at that.
“I’ll let Kellie know that you said she should take time off,” Victoria was saying. “This is going to be…”
She, too, seemed to be struggling for words. Finally she said, “Difficult.”
Especially if you lie about what happened.
I smiled and said, “The Averys are tough. I think that’s one trait both our families share.”
Victoria looked puzzled. “Both which families?”
“The Averys and the Montgomerys,” I said.
“Are you implying that you’re … related?”
“That’s right,” I said. “In fact, Prescott brought it up it up this afternoon.”
“How did this happen?” Victoria looked as if I’d just told her the Averys were related to direct descendants of Jack the Ripper.
“A couple of generations ago a Montgomery married an Avery.”
For a split second I thought she looked relieved. “So you’re not close relatives.”
“I can’t even do the math to figure out how many times removed we are.”
She smiled and I realized she was relieved.
Prescott hadn’t been dead more than a couple of hours. Was Victoria worried about relatives like us—known and unknown—coming out of the woodwork to find out whether we might benefit from his will and substantial wealth?
Quinn touched my elbow. “Sweetheart.”
“I know.”
Victoria walked over to the door and started to open it.
“Wait,” I said.
She turned around and this time her annoyance and impatience were obvious. Even Quinn frowned at me.
“What is it?” he said.
Prescott’s crystal cane with its elegant family crest engraved on the silver handle—his magic wand—stood propped in an umbrella stand that was part of an antique mahogany hall rack.
“That’s Prescott’s cane,” I said. “How did it get here?”
Victoria’s eyes went to the cane and she waved a hand, unfazed. “That cane? He always left it here so he could take it when he went out. It was one of his favorites.”
It seemed strange to hear her speak of Prescott in the past tense.
“But he was using it today,” I said. “He had it when we went downstairs. He even joked about taking the elevator because we both use canes.”
Victoria shook her head. “He had more than one silver-and-crystal cane, Lucie. Believe me, Prescott was quite the collector. And that included beautiful and expensive canes like this one.”
She was reading from Clayton’s playbook; that was obvious. What had Prescott told me earlier? They think I’m chasing unicorns, spending their inheritance with the things I collect. That’s why he’d sworn me to secrecy about the Jefferson copy of the Declaration of Independence and the other items he’d purchased.
“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?