We sat side by side in George Washington’s front-row pew because Quinn wanted to, and I told Josie what Prescott had told me about it.

“You have no idea where it is?” Josie asked.

“None,” Quinn said.

“Just like everything else we’ve talked about today,” I said.

Her smile was rueful. “If you do find it, you’ve got to let me know. Madeira was the wine of choice in America for two hundred years—it’s all anyone drank. The British saw to that when they taxed everything else. Plus it was a sign of wealth. People used to have Madeira parties to show off their collection—they even rented pineapples, which were also a sign of wealth, for the parties. I would have given anything to be at one of them, just to see a rented pineapple. And try the Madeira, of course.”

“Me, too,” Quinn said. “Maybe not so much for the pineapple, but definitely the Madeira.”

“The Founding Fathers drank it when they signed the Declaration of Independence and toasted the Constitution with it,” Josie said. “Madeira used to be a very big deal.”

Which explained why Prescott had been so adamant about having Ian’s Madeira: James Madison planned to drink it at a July 4 anniversary celebration on Capitol Hill, just as his friends and colleagues had done in 1776.

Josie checked her watch and stood up. “I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go. It’s a quarter to two and I’m going to have to run to get to the college for my appointment.”

“Thank you again for meeting with us,” I said as Quinn and I stood and shook her hand. “And for all your help.”

“I’ll be in touch about a date when you can come see me in Charlottesville,” she said. “If I were the two of you, I’d focus on looking for that Madeira. If you find it, it will be worth a fortune.”

“Believe me,” Quinn said, “we’re looking.”

“As for the documents in the Bruton Vault…” She rubbed her fingers together and then snapped them open to show there was nothing there, her eyes fixed on me. “In three hundred years, no one has been able to prove they existed. We know for a fact there was no vault here at Bruton Parish where everyone said it was supposed to be. In spite of what Prescott Avery may have told you, I’m sorry, Lucie, but as a scientist, I’ve got to go with the facts.”

We heard the click of the church door as it closed behind her.

“She could still be wrong,” I said.

“Let it go for now. And let’s go home, sweetheart.” Quinn glanced out the window. “It looks like it’s starting to blizzard.”

I nodded. Quinn was right.

The bigger question, though, was whether Josie Wilde was right as well.