“Because in Hamlet nothing ends well for anyone in that family, either. Everyone dies: the king, the queen, Hamlet’s friends, his corrupt uncle, the woman he loves. In the last scene Hamlet drinks from a poisoned chalice—on purpose—and then he dies, too.” She plunked the two tea bags I handed her into the mugs, stuck one in the microwave, and slammed the door. “‘Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince … and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.’”

I had read Hamlet in high school, but I didn’t remember the play well enough to be able to recite lines from it.

“Do you really think everyone in the Avery family is doomed? That they’re all going to die?” I asked.

“Of course not. Not literally, anyway,” she said. “But in the play the downfall of the House of Denmark began when Claudius, Hamlet’s uncle, killed Hamlet’s father, the old king. Then Claudius made himself king and married Hamlet’s mother, the queen, to solidify his position.”

“This does not sound like the Averys.”

“Clay was Prescott’s son by adoption because Prescott married his mother. Look, Hamlet is a story about the downfall and destruction of a family because of Claudius’s lust for power and Hamlet’s desire for revenge. I think Prescott could have been murdered for the same reasons. One, so he would no longer control the family business and two, someone wanted revenge because he was threatening to sell the Tribune against everyone’s wishes. The rumor going around is that Clay, Scotty, and Alex—especially Clay—thought Prescott had gone off the deep end with his spending sprees and they wanted to rein him in before he blew any more money. As for selling the Trib, every member of his family was dead set against it. No pun intended.” She leaned against the counter and folded her arms across her chest. “Revenge and power. I think those sound like plausible motives, don’t you?”

“When you put it like that.”

If Frankie knew about Clay trying to control Prescott’s spending and stop his pursuit of so-called “unicorns”—things that might not really exist—then it was common knowledge. The whole town knew.

The microwave beeped. I removed the hot tea, replaced it with the other mug, shut the door, and set the timer. “I didn’t realize you knew your Shakespeare so well.”

I handed her the mug.

“I should hope I do. Undergrad and graduate degrees in English Lit, specializing in British Literature during the Elizabethan era. I graduated summa cum laude. Twice.”

“Look at you. I’m impressed.”