Quinn put an arm around my shoulder. “Calm down, sweetheart. It was probably Eli. Or maybe Persia moved the envelope when she came in to clean and they fell out.”

“If it was Persia, you know she’d put them back where they belonged.”

“All right, then, Eli.”

A quick call to my brother who I woke up and got the tetchy reply that the only room he’d been in yesterday was the kitchen to make himself lunch.

“And you’re welcome for setting up your Christmas tree and getting it in the stand,” he said, still grumpy. “I got pinesap all over me.”

“Thank you.”

My next call to Persia, who was still in her apartment above Eli’s studio in the carriage house, confirmed two things: first, she hadn’t touched anything on my desk, either. Second, when Quinn and I had been in Jamestown yesterday, she had left the house for about an hour to run errands, but left the front door unlocked for Eli who had misplaced his keys. I thanked her and hung up.

“Someone’s been here,” I said to Quinn. “Someone who knew about Leland’s papers.”

“Why didn’t they take them?”

“He—or she—probably took photos. Maybe Persia or Eli showed up and whoever it was didn’t get a chance to clean up.”

We both went quiet. Then Quinn said in a tense, worried voice, “Is anything else missing?”

“Check the gun cabinet,” I said. “I’ll check upstairs in the bedroom.”

My mother’s jewelry, the pieces I’d inherited after she died that meant so much to me. For years I’d been promising myself I would get around to having the more valuable items appraised and properly insured. Then there was my beautiful antique engagement ring—Quinn’s Spanish grandmother’s ring—that I didn’t wear on days when I knew I was going to get my hands dirty at the winery.

Please. Not them, too. I climbed the grand circular staircase in the foyer as quickly as I could and flew into the bedroom.

I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I opened the burgundy leather jewelry case my father had bought my mother as a birthday gift on a trip to Switzerland. Everything was where it belonged. I said a silent prayer of thanks, vowed to photograph and insure all of it, and at the top of the stairs leaned over the banister and called down to Quinn.

“Everything’s here.”

He stepped into the foyer and looked up. “Same with the gun cabinet.”

I came downstairs and checked my purse, which I’d left on a chair in the foyer next to Leland’s bust of Thomas Jefferson. “Wallet, credit cards, keys. They’re all here. That envelope seems to be the only thing that anyone touched.”

“Maybe you should call Bobby.”