A few caipirinhas in and word had gone around that Prescott had insisted that everyone in the family spend the night at the Castle so he could convene a board of directors meeting first thing the following morning at which he planned to share news about the future of Avery Communications. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was on his mind. For the last three years Prescott had watched his stepson Clayton relinquish his role as publisher of the Washington Tribune to his two grandchildren, Scotty and Alexandra. He had also witnessed their increasingly public feud over how the newspaper should be run. Clayton, caught up in an ugly divorce, had done little to tamp down or even discourage the bickering between his son and daughter until it had finally disintegrated into two warring camps at the Trib. This afternoon Alex and Scotty were barely speaking to each other and when they did, they were icily civil.

Maybe Prescott just wanted to get away from the taut-as-a-violin-string tension among his family, and needed an accomplice. Plus he had piqued my interest: what proposition?

“This must be important if you want to discuss it right now,” I said.

He didn’t bite. “Then let’s go, shall we? We can take the elevator. It will be easier for both of us.”

He indicated my cane with the tip of his. Mine was utilitarian, the consequence of a near-fatal automobile accident ten years ago and doctors who said I’d never walk again. His, crystal with a beautiful antique silver handle engraved with his family crest, was merely an aid to help with balance, though he often joked that it was his magic wand. He slipped his free hand under my elbow. His grip was surprisingly strong.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“My wine cellar. I thought you might like to see it since the little renovation was finished last month.”

Ah, the hook. I’d visited Prescott’s wine cellar before, though more often I’d seen photographs of it in the pages of glossy lifestyle or shelter magazines. “Wine by Design: The Twenty Most Beautiful Wine Cellars in the World” or “The Largest Private Wine Collections in America You’ll Never See.”

“I would.”

“Excellent. We’ll be back before anyone misses us.”

I doubted that. Clayton, Scotty, Bianca, and Alex had all been keeping an eagle eye on Prescott this afternoon, no doubt wondering about the news he planned to announce tomorrow morning. Our departure would not go unnoticed.

“What about Quinn? Why don’t I go find him?” I said. “I know he’d love to join us.”

Quinn Santori, my fiancé, was also the winemaker at my vineyard. If I got a private tour of Prescott’s newly renovated wine cellar without him, I’d never hear the end of it.