Victoria was Clayton’s latest significant other, although rumors abounded this afternoon that they were about to officially announce their engagement. They’d met a few months ago at a party at the Russian embassy after Prescott loaned two paintings—a Kandinsky and a Chagall—for a special exhibit on Russian artists at the National Gallery of Art that Victoria, a museum curator, had organized. She and Clayton had been inseparable ever since.

Everyone in Atoka drew the obvious stereotypical conclusions since Victoria was an attractive blonde with the willowy figure of a fashion model, closer in age to Scotty and Alex than she was to Clayton. Sexy, hot blonde makes older man feel young and virile again. Younger woman—some would say “gold digger”—finds boyfriend to indulge her love of couturier clothes, expensive jewelry, and sailing trips to Greece and skiing holidays in Switzerland.

Bobby’s head swiveled around until he found Clay and Victoria. Then he turned back to me. He knew I’d ducked answering him and he knew I knew it.

“See you downstairs,” he said. “I’ll go tell Clay.”

Four

For a man in his midseventies, Win Turnbull had the spry agility of someone at least twenty years younger. I walk fast enough with my cane, but I can no longer run since my accident and that terrifies me. Win slowed his pace as soon as he realized I was having trouble keeping up—and apologized. I hated that he had to do that.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’m working on getting faster.”

“I know you are,” he said. “You’ve got grit, Lucie.”

When Win had been in Iraq, he had performed what he called “meatball surgery” under appalling conditions, reattaching limbs where possible and amputating them when there was no more hope. Sometimes on children. He’d seen plenty of grit.

“Thank you for that.”

I led him to the elevator, the basement, and down the maze of corridors. I caught his startled look as he took in the unusual art, but unlike Quinn he didn’t comment. Nor did he say anything when we walked into Prescott’s wine cellar with its opulent medieval French château decor and, through the arched doorway, the rows of wine racks with bottles of rare vintages that stretched into the darkness.

Quinn got up from the sofa where he’d been keeping vigil with Prescott, looking surprised at seeing Win instead of Clayton.

“Hey, Doc,” he said. “Over here.”

“Bobby is going to tell Clayton what happened and bring him down here,” I said.

Quinn nodded and moved out of the way so Win could kneel beside Prescott.

“Rigor hasn’t set in,” Win said after a moment. “It hasn’t been very long since the time of death. Lucie, tell me what happened when you were with him.”