“Great, as long as you’re out—and you’d practically be driving by here anyway if you’re heading home from Leesburg—I wanted to ask if you would stop by the house. There’s something we need to discuss. It’s rather urgent.”

I knew where this was going. First, I wouldn’t “practically” be driving by Hawthorne Castle. Second, Clay wanted to talk about my conversation with Prescott just before he died. We didn’t need to discuss it; he wanted me to tell him what had gone on.

“What’s this about, Clay?”

“Let’s save it for when we meet,” he said, brushing off the question. “How about in half an hour? Could you be here then? Come by for a drink or coffee.”

“I … sure.”

“Great,” he said. “See you soon.”

I had already told Bobby about my conversation with Prescott over a glass of Madeira in his wine cellar just before he died. But that was after it was determined he hadn’t died of natural causes as everyone had assumed.

Telling Clayton was a different matter. For one thing, he was high on Bobby’s list of suspects, fitting the bill perfectly with motive, means, and opportunity. And killing Prescott in plain sight of more than a hundred party guests, meaning there were so many potential suspects, had been a brilliant, if cruel, move. If Clayton had done it.

Maybe he hadn’t. What if he, like Prescott, wanted to buy Leland’s cache of 1809 Madeira and that’s why he wanted me to stop by? Too bad I was no nearer to knowing where those bottles were today than I had been on Saturday.

I called Quinn as I put on my signal for Mosby’s Highway at the roundabout where it met Highway 15 and told him I was stopping by Hawthorne and why. Quinn was still out in the vineyard trying to figure out what to do about the diseased Merlot vines.

He sounded preoccupied. “Don’t worry about when you get home. Persia already made dinner. All we have to do is heat it up.”

“What’s for dinner?”

“You even have to ask?” he said. “Turkey casserole.”

Comfort food. Again. After this day, I’d welcome it.

“Sounds good to me,” I said. “See you soon.”

But first I had a meeting—a command performance, actually—with Clayton Avery, who was very likely on the top of Bobby’s suspect list for the murder of his stepfather, Prescott Avery.

Thirteen

I wasn’t expecting to see the black ribbon twined through the wrought-iron gates at the entrance to Hawthorne Castle and wondered who had been responsible for that poignant detail. Somehow I guessed it might be Bianca. Alex and Scotty would be busy at the Trib and Victoria would be with Clay, probably organizing the wake and funeral.