“I saw a cane that looked just like the one he was using in the hall rack by the front door when Quinn and I were leaving. Victoria told me Prescott owned several silver-and-crystal canes. She said he collected them.”

“I see.” Bobby leaned back against the sofa and closed his notebook. He crossed one leg over the other. “Other than Victoria possibly being downstairs when you and Prescott were there, did you hear anything or see anyone else? The staff, maybe?”

“No one,” I said. “Who did you have in mind? Do you think Clay went with her?”

Bobby shrugged. “You tell me. They were both upstairs by the time you ran into Win and me. Besides the elevator, there are stairs between the main floor and the lower level. Also a door that leads to the side garden.”

“What are you saying?”

“How long do you think it took you to get from Prescott’s wine cellar upstairs to the dining room?” His eyes strayed to my cane, which was propped against the sofa. He hadn’t said anything outright but I knew what he was thinking: it would take me longer than someone who had two good feet. Someone who could sprint, or run.

“I got lost. So maybe five minutes. Ten?”

“Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Sure. Not sure I can answer, though.”

“How was Prescott killed?”

Bobby’s jaw twitched. I wasn’t certain he was going to answer me. “B. J. Hunt found an injury—to the head—that wasn’t consistent with the fall Prescott took. He was struck by something.”

I thought of Prescott, fragile, nearly a century old. “What was it?” I said, my voice rising. “How could someone hit an old man like that?”

“It was a blunt object. So far we haven’t found it, so the killer probably took it with him. Or her. And got rid of it.”

“How are you going to find out who did this?”

“The same way any detective does. Ask a lot of questions. Connect the dots. I’ve told you this before, but a killer always takes something from the scene of the crime and always leaves something behind. Locard’s exchange principle, it’s called. It works every time. I just need to find out what those things are.” He sounded grim. “And I will.”

As much as I didn’t want to believe it, it seemed to me the dots connected into a big circle around the Avery family. One of them—or maybe more than one—was guilty of murder.

“Speaking of asking questions,” Bobby went on, “Quinn was downstairs with Prescott before we arrived. I need to talk to him as well.”