“For one of my best customers, anything,” he said, adding with a rueful smile, “I’m sorry I got a bit wound up just now. Don’t mind me. I don’t usually talk about this stuff.”

“You seem to have some strong feelings about the Masons,” Quinn said. “For someone who dropped out.”

Noah gave a dry laugh. “I suppose you’re right. I also have some strong feelings about what happened to Prescott. I hope whoever killed him gets exactly what’s coming to them. God knows they deserve it.”

To look at Noah just now was to see Santa without the red suit, a gentle soul whose two favorite lines at this time of year were usually “Ho-ho-ho” and “Were you naughty or nice?” Instead he was talking about vengeance and murder.

“Do you think the murderer was a Mason?” I said.

“No,” he said, “but I think Prescott’s death had something to do with him being a Mason.”

“The Sheriff’s Office suspects it’s someone in the family,” Quinn said.

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

Quinn and I glanced at each other. “No one else in the family belongs to the Masons,” I said.

“I didn’t say the killer was a Mason,” Noah said. “Prescott intimidated a lot of people. At ninety-five years old, he was still someone to be reckoned with. He played hardball and he played to win. As a result, he alienated people.”

“I’m not following you,” I said.

“Prescott and Rosie did a lot of good for a lot of people during their lives,” Noah said. “But he made enemies over the years. Especially when there was something he wanted—a work of art, a rare jewel, an item no one believed could be found. Pirate’s treasure. Evidence of the existence of Noah’s Ark. It was all about the quest. Always about the quest.”

“Indiana Jones,” Quinn said under his breath.

“The thrill of the hunt,” I said.

“Exactly.” Noah nodded. “The more elusive, the better. Cost was no object.”

And it infuriated his family. I wondered if Noah knew about that. And I wondered if he had known Prescott just bought James Madison’s copy of the Declaration of Independence, written out by Thomas Jefferson.

“So someone killed him because of something he was looking for?” Quinn asked.

“Possibly,” Noah said. “Or maybe it was to stop him before he found it. Whatever ‘it’ was.”

“Any idea?” I asked. How much had Prescott confided in Noah about what he was searching for, his lost treasure?

Noah shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Only that it was something worth killing for.”

Eighteen

On the drive south to Jamestown on Wednesday morning, Quinn and I tried to parse Noah Seely’s theory about why someone had murdered Prescott: because of what he was searching for or because someone didn’t want him to find it.