Whoever had left a brass cremation urn containing the ashes of their beloved dearly departed in the vault of Blue Ridge Federal years ago, he or she had never returned to claim it and the paperwork either vanished or had been misplaced. Over the years—and there had been many—it had become part of the nightly ritual for whoever was locking up and setting alarms at the bank to wish The Urn sweet dreams. It was even considered bad luck to forget to say good night to it, prompting a number of superstitious beliefs to become part of the urban legend of The Urn’s mystique.

“What makes everyone so sure The Urn contains the ashes of a person?” Quinn asked. “What if it’s someone’s dog? Or cat? Or, since this is horse and hunt country, why not a horse?”

I frowned at him. “I don’t know. We’ve always assumed it’s a person. The whole town has. At this point, how could you tell, even if you opened it up to check, whether it was a horse or a person … oh, jeez, why did you bring that up? Now I’m not going to be able to stop wondering about it.”

He added homemade strawberry jam to his buttered baguette. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to burst your bubble. I feel like I’ve just told you Santa Claus isn’t real and doesn’t live at the North Pole.”

“Speaking of Santa Claus,” I said, “there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Frankie was wondering…”

The security alarm panel beeped that someone had opened and closed the front door and a moment later, Eli appeared in the kitchen, bundled up in a navy pea coat with a roll of architectural drawings under one arm. He also had our copy of the Washington Tribune.

“Here’s your paper,” he said. “Wait until you read the article on Prescott.” He set it down on the kitchen table open to the front page with its banner headlines.

TRIBUNE OWNER PRESCOTT AVERY’S DEATH NOW CONSIDERED MURDER.

LOUDOUN COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE OPENS INVESTIGATION.

Grant Lowry had written the story, rather than assigning it to one of his reporters. Quinn picked up the newspaper.

“Want some coffee before you have to meet your client?” I asked Eli. He looked tired and there were raccoon-like circles under his eyes. From an upstairs window I’d seen the lights on in the carriage house when Quinn and I had gone to bed last night.

“Who made it?” My brother thought Quinn’s coffee tasted like road tar.

“Me.”

“Sure, I’ll take a quick cup.”

I got up to get it for him. He set his drawings on the counter and shrugged out of his coat, throwing himself into the chair next to Quinn.

“Anybody eating that last piece of Sasha’s pumpkin spice bread?” he asked.