Bobby did this for a living, delivering in person the worst news anyone could hear to unsuspecting family members, letting them know that their loved one wouldn’t be coming home anymore because he or she was dead. I didn’t know how he could do it again and again: it was an accident … the shots were fatal … I’m afraid we believe she committed suicide … I’m so sorry, my deepest condolences, my sympathy, my prayers to you and your family. Then he had to witness the shock, heartbreak, and grief.

Now he was watching me, waiting for an answer. “Are you all right, Lucie?”

“I’m … fine.” Which was a lie. I hadn’t realized I’d been gripping my cane handle so tight my knuckles were white, but I’d had no idea what I was going to say to Clayton other than blurt out the truth: Prescott is dead. Thank God Bobby was handling it; he would be far better at finding the proper words of consolation.

“Thank you for doing this,” I added.

He nodded. “No problem. And later on, you can fill me in on what happened before Prescott hit his head.” Bobby wore his no-nonsense cop face. “Because I’m sure there is more to the story.”

Prescott had made me promise I would keep our conversation to myself. He didn’t want his family to know about his purchase of James Madison’s priceless copy of the Declaration of Independence, penned by his good friend Thomas Jefferson, along with other valuable documents pertaining to Madison and his wife, Dolley. But now Prescott was dead and Bobby would be asking me officially, not out of prurient curiosity.

How much was I going to tell him? He clearly wanted to know what I was doing in Prescott’s private cellar and why Quinn was there.

Did I have to explain about Ian Montgomery’s ill-gotten Madeira and Prescott’s hints about possibly discovering the answer to a puzzle that would reveal the whereabouts of a spectacular lost treasure? That he believed he was venturing into potentially dangerous territory if he shared what he knew? Wouldn’t Bobby twirl a finger next to his temple and give me one of those are-you-out-of-your-ever-lovin’-mind looks?

Hadn’t I wanted to twirl a finger next to my temple and ask Prescott the same thing?

Across from us Clayton Avery strolled into the dining room. Victoria Barkley, his girlfriend, hung on one arm discussing something that seemed to consume Clay’s interest. The two of them had their heads together like a pair of conspirators, Clay nodding as she spoke.

“Don’t turn around,” I said to Bobby, “but Clayton and Victoria just showed up. They’re by themselves. And in their own world.”