“Funny. Real funny.” I punched in the code I remembered from watching Prescott, reciting the letters as I typed. “HTWSSTKS. Does that mean anything to you?”

“Hot … was sticks? Hat was stuck? Hot wish sticks?” He shook his head. “Nope.”

Just as before I heard a series of clicks and the door swung open like the entrance to Aladdin’s Cave.

“It should be right there in the sofa cushions,” I said as we stepped inside. “What the—?”

An overpowering smell of honey, butterscotch, cocoa, and coffee filled the room.

“That smells like Madeira,” I said. “Prescott’s Malmsey. Something’s happened … something’s wrong.”

Quinn sprinted across the room to the sofa and armchair where Prescott and I had been seated less than an hour ago. He stopped and looked up. His face told me all I needed to know.

I reached him seconds later and we both knelt down. Prescott lay on the floor, his frail body crumpled so he was partially on his side, one arm flung above his head as if trying to protect his face, the other stretched out like he was reaching for something. Blood pooled under his head and there was a partial bloody handprint on the edge of the glass-topped coffee table. His glass of Malmsey had broken into two pieces—the stem and the goblet—and lay on the floor. The decanter had toppled over and most of the contents had spilled out. Odd, because decanters with their wide bases, which allow the liquid to breathe and open up, usually don’t accidentally tip over. My glass, however, was exactly where I’d left it. The tableau bothered me. Something wasn’t right.

Otherwise, though, sweet, viscous Madeira was everywhere in puddles and spreading liquid tentacles. It had even mixed in with Prescott’s blood. I swallowed and prayed I wouldn’t throw up.

My chest felt like it might explode. “We have to get help right away.”

But I knew we were too late even before Quinn leaned down, listening to Prescott’s heart and touching his fingers to find a pulse. He straightened up and shook his head.

“He’s dead, sweetheart. He must have tripped and hit his head on the table. Or maybe he had a heart attack … I don’t know. A doctor will figure it out.”

My eyes filled with tears. “I should have stayed with him. If I’d been here, I could have gotten help, maybe saved his life.”

“Lucie.” Quinn’s voice was gentle, but urgent. “There’s nothing you can do now and you don’t know that it would have been different if you had been with him. We still need to get someone down here. Clayton or someone else in the family. They’re going to need to make arrangements, take care of the bod—take care of Prescott.”

“Right.” I felt numb. I should have stayed should have stayed should have stayed.