Scotty raised an eyebrow. In the washed-out light, he suddenly looked disdainful as if he were pulling up the figurative drawbridge to Hawthorne Castle and the Avery family. “Are you asking if she was angry enough to kill him? Come on, Lucie, you probably know more than I do. You were the last one to see my grandfather alive.”

I wasn’t sure if he was trying to provoke me or make a not-so-subtle accusation.

“Second to last.” I kept my voice even. Hadn’t I just said the same thing to Clay?

Scotty stiffened. “There may be no love lost between Alex and me, but I’m not going to trash my sister. Frankly, we’d be more likely to kill each other, especially when we get going about something.” He paused. “You know what? Forget I said that. I’m just running my mouth. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Of course.”

He revved his car’s engine, the noise menacing in the tomblike night silence. I jumped.

“Sorry, accidentally hit the gas pedal,” he said. “And I’d better get home. I’ll wait until you’re back on the road and make sure you’re on your way.”

“Thanks, but I’ll be fine,” I said. “Good luck, Scott.”

He nodded without replying and powered up his window. He was upset and I’d hit a nerve, pressing him about his sister. I reversed the Jeep until I was off the shoulder, stuck my hand out the window, waved, and tooted my horn. He honked back and a moment later his taillights disappeared in a spray of gravel.

By the time I got to the turnoff for Mosby’s Highway, I wasn’t sure what to make of that disquieting whipsaw conversation. I had just spoken to two of the three people Bobby Noland most suspected in the murder of Prescott Avery. Both claimed they didn’t do it, but if they had, neither one of them would have confessed their crime to me.

Then there was Alex. Scotty had defended her in a muted way, but he never said outright he was certain she wasn’t guilty of murder.

Which still left the question: did Alexandra Avery kill her grandfather on Saturday afternoon under the noses of one hundred people who were upstairs eating and drinking at her family’s annual post-Thanksgiving party? Scotty had said she was hot tempered and mercurial and that she and Prescott had argued over her returning to Virginia.

Adding up all of those things, it seemed to me they would move her straight to the top of the list of suspects.

I wondered if Bobby Noland had already reached the same conclusion.

I WAS IN THE middle of putting Persia’s turkey casserole in the oven to warm it up when Quinn got home.