“It is,” Clayton said. “It must have fallen out when he tripped … or after he collapsed.”

“Wait a minute.” I looked around the room. “Where’s his crystal cane … his magic wand? It should be here somewhere, too.”

“Maybe it rolled under the sofa,” Scotty said.

Bobby went over and checked. “Nope. At least I don’t see it.”

“We’ll find it,” Clayton said. “It has to be here somewhere.”

His eyes met mine. I knew then that he was aware of Prescott’s Masonic shrine—how could he not know?—and the hidden door in the wall. It was the last place I’d seen Prescott when he was still alive. Maybe he’d dropped the cane in there and that was probably what Clayton was thinking.

For now neither he nor anyone else knew that I’d been in that room, nor the secret Prescott didn’t want any of them to know about. I wanted to keep it that way, though I had the uneasy feeling Clayton might have already figured out that I knew something.

“We should be going,” Quinn said. “Good-bye, everyone … and, again, our condolences.”

On my way out, I couldn’t resist one more glance at the bookcase behind which the door to Prescott’s Masonic shrine was located. If you didn’t know a secret door was there, you’d never guess. My glance fell on the Hogarth painting next to it, Ferdinand Courting Miranda. It was askew. Could Prescott have flailed about and knocked into it before he fell?

Quinn tugged my arm. “Let’s get out of here,” he said under his breath.

We didn’t speak until we were back at the elevator and well out of earshot of everyone in the wine cellar.

Quinn said it first. “What the hell just happened in there?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But something’s wrong and it has to do with Prescott’s death. His family is covering up a secret.” The elevator door slid open and Quinn opened the inner door so we could step in.

As the door closed I added, “Whatever it is, we’re now co-conspirators. Except we don’t know to what.”

Five

Kit Noland met Quinn and me as we stepped out of the elevator. She was already dressed for Christmas in hunter-green wool trousers and a cherry-red turtleneck. A necklace with tiny chili pepper lights occasionally winked red and green. The holiday outfit didn’t go with her all-business demeanor. She was holding a mug of black coffee and she’d clicked off party mode.

“Grant told me before he left for the newsroom that Prescott was found dead downstairs in his wine cellar,” she said as the elevator door closed behind us. “They’re trying to keep it quiet so no one at the party finds out.”