The Romeos—which stood for Retired Old Men Eating Out—were also retired old men drinking out, whether it was coffee every morning at the General Store or happy hour at one of the many restaurants and watering holes throughout Loudoun County. Between them they managed to eavesdrop on, and subsequently vacuum up, every conversation and tidbit of information about the goings-on in our county they could find. They then reported their news—some would call it gossip—to Thelma Johnson, the octogenarian owner of the General Store and All-Around Queen Bee of Information. Filtered through Thelma’s reality, which consisted of daytime soap operas and her beloved Ouija board, she in turn disseminated what she learned faster than it could make its way around the internet.

My father had been a Romeo. Clay Avery was one as well. Accuracy wasn’t always important in the Romeos’ information-collecting process. Speed was.

“What were they saying?” I picked up a box labeled CHANTAL’S ORNAMENTS and took off the lid. My mother’s collection of beautiful vintage glass ornaments—Santas, a partridge in a pear tree, a drummer boy, striped candy canes, colored balls. She had brought them with her from France.

“Well, of course, no one knew then that Prescott had been murdered,” she said. “They were talking about the board meeting he intended to convene today—and that it was sort of convenient he was dead so there would be no talk of selling the Trib.”

I closed the box and set it down. “I assume Clay wasn’t there for this discussion.”

“Good Lord, no! No one would have breathed a word about it if he had been,” Frankie said.

I shook my head in disbelief. “Yesterday we were at Hawthorne celebrating the beginning of the holiday season. Today the entire family is suspected of murder—the death of a ninety-five-year-old man who was the head of the family,” I said. “How did it come to this?”

QUINN FOUND FRANKIE AND me as we were carrying the last of the decorations out of the storage room. He picked up a box that had FRAGILE! WINE BOTTLES! written on it in red marker.

“Bobby’s about to leave,” he said. “You want all these things moved into the tasting room, Frankie?”

“Yes, please.”

“How did it go?” I asked him when Frankie was out of earshot.

He gave me a look as if he’d just sold his soul to the devil. “I had to tell him about the conversation I overheard yesterday between Alex and Scotty in the butler’s pantry. The one where Scotty said he’d do whatever it took to keep Prescott from selling the Trib.”

“Oh, God. He probably didn’t mean that literally yesterday. Today it sounds…” I didn’t want to say what it sounded like.

“I know.”