He put ice in a glass and opened a bottle of sparkling water. “No.” He filled the glass and brought it over to me. “The Sheriff’s Office still hasn’t released the … Prescott. I hope they do it soon. We need closure.”

“Hunt’s Funeral Home is taking care of everything?”

He nodded. “The wake will be at Hunt’s and the funeral will be at National Cathedral in D.C. The interment will be in our family plot in Union Cemetery.”

The Averys had always gone to Trinity Episcopal Church in Upperville. Prescott had been a member of the church’s vestry, the lay governing board, and Clay and Scotty had served as lectors over the years.

Clay poured himself a hefty serving of what looked like Scotch out of a crystal decanter and sat down in a leather club chair across from me.

“Why did you choose National Cathedral, rather than Trinity, if you don’t mind me asking?” I said.

Clay looked astonished. “Are you kidding me? Prescott chose it. He planned his entire funeral, everything from the hymns and the readings to the eulogists. I’m surprised he didn’t write them himself and hand them out. The only person he asked from the family was his granddaughter, Kellie. The others are friends, business colleagues. Apparently he called them all up and got their commitments.” He drank his Scotch. “Of course he always had to be in control. Of everything.”

His bitterness was palpable. I sipped my water and nodded. This might be more than Clay’s second Scotch of the day and it seemed to be darkening his mood. He swirled the ice cubes in his glass and the noise sounded like breaking glass. We were done with small talk. He was going to get down to brass tacks, ask me about my conversation with Prescott.

Find out what I knew.

He crossed one leg over the other and our eyes met. “It’s a hell of a situation,” he said. “Murder.”

I hadn’t expected him to be quite that direct.

“Any idea who did it?” I asked.

“Oh, come on, Lucie. You know as well as I do I’m the number-one suspect, followed by Scotty and Alex.” His voice was filled with scorn and anger. “Not necessarily in that order.”

“Did you do it?”

He shot right back at me. “Do you think I did?”

Did I? I hesitated and he pounced.

“You think I killed him? Really?”

“No, I…”

“Why don’t you tell me what the two of you were doing downstairs in his wine cellar on Saturday?” Harsh. Still angry.

Here it was. Maybe we could trade information. Maybe he knew something about what Prescott planned to reveal to his Masonic lodge before the Miranda Foundation’s gala in two weeks. The answer to the secret, the whereabouts of the lost treasure he and Leland had been searching for.