Noah laughed and kissed me on the cheek. Quinn gave me a martyred look and said, “What have you gotten me into?”

“You’ll be fine, Quinn.” Noah reassured him as he passed me a cup of cider. “How’ve you been, Lucie sweetheart? I heard you two were the ones who found Prescott the other day.”

Noah was one of the Romeos; he and my parents—especially my mother—had a long history together. Years ago when she decided to restore the gardens at Highland House after Leland had let them go completely to seed, she went to him for help tracking down the plants she wanted after poring over Thomas Jefferson’s Garden Book for inspiration. Noah had been indefatigable in researching and locating the more unusual plants on her list. Afterward as a thank-you, she had surprised him by painting some of the pretty vistas and scenes of the garden center, presenting him with not only the paintings, but also her rough sketches. Over the years, her art had been turned into posters, greeting cards, even used in calendars. Most of the paintings hung in the common room where staff meetings and educational classes for the public were held. Noah’s favorite, of the back lot where the trees and large bushes were kept, had been painted in spring when everything was flowering and in full bloom with the Blue Ridge Mountains as a backdrop. That one hung in his office.

It wasn’t hard to figure out how Noah knew about us finding Prescott: Clay had probably told him.

“We were there,” I said. “It was such a shock. Especially afterward when Bobby announced it was murder and not a natural death.”

“Have you spoken to Clay recently?” Quinn asked. He had helped himself to more popcorn and now held out the bag to Noah and me.

Noah patted his ample stomach and wagged a finger at the popcorn. “Thanks, but I’m trying to give it up. Not easy around here. As for Clay, I haven’t heard from him that much. I’ve been talking mostly to Victoria about the funeral—we’ve been asked to take care of the flowers at National Cathedral—and to Celia, Tommy’s widow, about the Miranda Foundation fund-raiser at the orangerie since we’re donating those flowers.”

“I didn’t realize they were still going ahead with the fund-raiser,” I said.

Noah nodded. “Everything but a small private party Prescott planned beforehand for his Masonic lodge. That’s not going to take place anymore.” He paused and added, “I know he really wanted to buy that Madeira Lee had put away, Lucie. Did you agree to sell it to him?”

I smiled through gritted teeth. “You must have heard about that from Thelma.”