“Not according to my lawyers.” There was a gleam in his eyes—satisfaction? triumph?—before they narrowed. “However it does complicate matters as far as Bobby Noland’s concerned. I’m sure you can guess why.”

“It gives you a motive for murder?”

“The best,” he said, with a grim smile. “So now that you know that piece of information, tell me. Do you think I killed him?”

A shiver went down my spine. Was he teasing or dead serious?

“You mean, do I believe I’m sitting here by myself in a room with a murderer?”

“That’s another way of putting it.”

I said, “No,” in a faint voice that didn’t convince either of us.

“Lucie,” he said, “I didn’t do it.”

“Who did?”

“I don’t know. But it wasn’t Scotty or Alex, either. I’d bet my life on that.”

“An angry Tribbie?”

“Perhaps. Whoever it was, that person was a friend. A guest at our party. Someone we invited into our home. That’s pretty hard to stomach,” he said. “And speaking of guests, can I just point out that you were the last person to see Prescott?”

I said in an even voice, “The person who killed him was the last person to see him. What motive would I possibly have?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “You tell me.”

“None at all.”

“It’s not pleasant being accused of something you didn’t do, is it?” he said. “Especially when we’re talking about murder.”

“Point taken.”

“Prescott and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but I respected him. And I didn’t kill him.” Clay stirred in his chair and glanced out the window. My gaze followed him.

The orangerie was outlined in white fairy lights that had winked on sometime during our conversation. They reflected off the glass against the dark periwinkle sky and made the little building look even more like an enchanted cottage in the midst of the woods.

“I’m talking too much and it’s getting dark,” he said. “I should let you get home. I hope you understand about the Madeira, Lucie. I really can’t keep the deal Prescott made with you.”

“It’s not a problem, because I don’t have the Madeira. Though I wish I did,” I said. “Can I ask you something now?”

“I suppose so.”

“Why was Prescott so fascinated with Shakespeare’s play The Tempest?”

He looked stunned. “How the hell did you know about that?”

“Your half-sister was named Miranda. The copy of the painting in his wine cellar was from the play—and Prescott only owned originals.” I took a deep breath. “Also the epitaphs on your mother’s and Miranda’s gravestones are lines from the play.”

“Jesus,” he said, bristling. “You’ve been doing some digging, Lucie. What’s going on here?”