I don’t know for sure,” I said. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. That’s why we came here.”

I didn’t want to tell her about my speculation that the documents had ended up in the White House thanks to Thomas Jefferson and that Dolley Madison had them moved the night the British burned Washington during the War of 1812.

“Did you find what you expected?” she asked.

“You’re doing your best to convince us the Bruton Vault didn’t exist.”

“I could have told you it didn’t exist and saved you the trip.”

“We needed to see everything for ourselves.”

Josie glanced at Quinn. “We? So you also go along with the theory there was a vault and some secret documents, Mr. California?”

Quinn gave me a pained smile. “Sweetheart, you know what Clay said. Prescott was starting to lose it, having trouble separating reality from fantasy.” To Josie he added, “You’re very persuasive that there was no vault. And there’s the fact you were here the last time this graveyard was dug up.”

“Prescott was adamant about the Madeira,” I said. “That was no fantasy. A lot of people in Atoka knew about it. Thelma Johnson even tried it.”

“That’s different,” Quinn said. “One has nothing to do with the other.”

“What Madeira?” Josie asked.

“Ladies, can we discuss this inside the church?” Quinn asked. “My feet are going numb.”

Josie started to open her mouth.

“Don’t go there,” Quinn said. “Just because I’m from California.”

She grinned as he held the door for us and we walked inside Bruton Parish Church. Quinn dropped a twenty-dollar bill in the collection box and we said hello to a church volunteer sitting in the vestibule. She thanked Quinn and handed him a brochure on the building’s history and architecture.

Since my student days I had always loved the peaceful simplicity of this little church. Though I’m not religious, it had been the place I used to come to get away for a while and just sit in one of the pews. I always felt calmer when I left.

Natural light that was now dulled by snow filtered through the large windows on both sides of the church; lighted wall sconces gave off a golden glow. Just as at Jamestown, we had the place to ourselves. Josie and I watched Quinn walk down the main aisle, pausing to read the signs on the doors to each pew.

“He’ll be impressed,” I said to her. “Wait and see.”

He was. When he came back he said, “General George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, James Monroe, Patrick Henry … did all those guys really go to church here?”

“All those guys really did,” Josie said.

“Williamsburg was the capital of Virginia after it moved from Jamestown,” I said, “and it was the law that you had to attend services.”

“Not to change the subject,” Josie said, “but what about this Madeira?”