I also could have said, “None of your damn business.”

“Well?” he said.

“If you asked me to come by because you needed someone to vent your anger on, you should have told me, Clay. I could have saved us both some trouble.” I stood up. “I’ll see myself out.”

He looked stunned, then penitent. “Lucie, I’m sorry. I’m just under so much stress right now. Please don’t take it personally and please don’t go. Please. Have a seat. And I’d really like to know what you and Prescott talked about on Saturday.”

I sat. “According to Prescott, my family owns several cases of Madeira that date back to 1809,” I said. “Prescott tried to buy them from my father, who wouldn’t sell, and apparently Jock tried to buy them from my great-uncle, who also wanted to keep them. So Prescott asked me if I’d sell them to him.”

“And what did you say?”

“I told him I had no idea what he was talking about. I never heard of any Madeira.”

“How much did he offer you?”

“He told me to name my price.”

Clay groaned. “Look, Lucie, even if you do find that wine, the deal is off, okay? Why did Prescott want those bottles? I mean, why now?”

“He wanted to drink them as a toast at a special party for his Masonic brothers the night of the gala.”

“What special party?”

When I hesitated again, he said, “Come on, Lucie. What special party?”

“He … found something, or was on the verge of finding something, that he wanted to celebrate that night. Something … significant. He said it was a ‘dangerous’ secret.”

Clayton looked like he wanted to throw his glass across the room. “Jesus. Not again.”

“What do you mean?”

“My stepfather may have been one of the most astute businessmen I ever met, plus he understood the newspaper business like no one else, but he chased after every damn unicorn that came down the road.”

Unicorn. The same word Prescott had used. A mythological creature that didn’t exist.

Clay got up and walked over to the bar cart. For a moment I thought he was going to top off his Scotch again. Instead he came back to his chair and sat down, elbows on his knees, leaning toward me like he was going to let me in on a secret.

“Look,” he said.

Whenever someone started a sentence with “look” and used that tone of voice, I’ve learned that what comes next is going to be an explanation they need you to believe, a con, or a lie.

I waited.

“Prescott had an almost childlike fascination with finding things that were supposed to be unfindable. Things that might not even exist. He loved the chase, the hunt. The more elusive the better. Money was no object.”