Pendergast held the memory briefly, like a precious jewel, then let it fade away. Turning from the window, he let his eye roam around the room, taking in the African sculptures, the beautiful mahogany furniture, the jades, and the bookshelves laden with gold-stamped tomes. He did not know when Esterhazy would return, but he wished he could be there to appreciate the homecoming.

He let the wines rest for half an hour — a longer rest would be risky with the older vintages — and then began his tasting. Starting with the 1892, he poured no more than a mouthful into the decanter and swirled it slowly, examining the color in the light. Then he poured it into the glass, inhaled the aroma, and — eventually — took a generous sip. Placing the bottle on the windowsill, uncorked, he moved on to the next younger.

The entire process took another hour, and by the end his equanimity was fully restored.

At last, he put the decanter and glass aside and rose from the chair. He finally addressed his attention to the small safe he had earlier discovered behind one of the diplomas hanging on the wall. It resisted Pendergast’s advances quite valiantly, yielding only after ten minutes of delicate work.

Just as he was opening its door, Pendergast’s cell phone rang. He examined the incoming number before answering. “Yes?”

“Aloysius? It’s Peter Beaufort. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

A sudden silence, and then Pendergast said, “I was just enjoying a quiet glass of wine.”

“The results are in.”

“And?”

“I think I’d rather tell you in person.”

“I would like to know now.”

“I won’t tell you over the phone. Get here as quickly as you can.”

“I’m in Savannah. I’ll catch a late-night flight and meet you in your office tomorrow morning. At nine.”

Pendergast returned the phone to his pocket and returned his attention to the safe. It contained the usual items: jewelry, some stock certificates, the deed to the house, a last will and testament, and a variety of miscellaneous papers including what appeared to be some old bills from a nursing home in Camden, Maine, concerning a patient named Emma Grolier. Pendergast swept up the documents and put them in his pocket for later examination. Then he sat down at the roll-top desk, took a sheet of blank linen paper, and wrote a short note.

My dear Judson,

I thought you’d be interested in the results of my vertical wine tasting of your Latours. I found the 1918 sadly faded, and the 1949 was to my mind overrated: it ended worse than it started, with tannic overtones. The 1958 was, alas, corked. But the rest were quite delightful. And the ’45 was superlative — still rich and surpassingly elegant, with an aroma of currants and mushrooms and a long, sweet finish. Pity you only had a single bottle.

My apologies for what happened to your collection of old pots. I’ve left you a little something to compensate.

P.

Pendergast placed the letter on top of the desk. Reaching into his pocket, he extracted a five-dollar bill from his wallet and put it alongside.

He had reached the doorway before a thought struck him. Turning back, he walked over to the windowsill and picked up the 1945 bottle of Château Latour. Corking it carefully, he took it with him, making his way from the den to the kitchen and out into the fragrant night air.

Armadillo Crossing, Mississippi

BETTERTON WAS OUT FOR AN EARLY-MORNING cup of coffee when the idea hit him. It was a long shot, but not so much that it wasn’t worth a ten-mile detour to check on.

He turned his Nissan around and headed once again in the direction of Malfourche, stopping a few miles short at the sorry-looking fork in the road known locally as Armadillo Crossing. The story was, someone had run over an armadillo here years ago, the smashed carcass remaining long enough to give the fork its name. The only house at the fork consisted of a tar-paper shack, the residence of one Billy B. “Grass” Hopper.

Betterton pulled up in front of the old Hopper place, almost indistinguishable beneath a thick covering of kudzu. His hand was throbbing like a son of a bitch. Grabbing a pack of cigarettes from the glove compartment, he got out of the car and walked toward the porch in the rising light. He could make out Billy B., rocking lazily. Despite the early hour, a Bud was in one gnarled hand. When a hurricane had blown down the sign indicating the Malfourche turnoff some years ago, Billy B., inevitably manning his rocking chair, would almost always be consulted by strangers as to which road led into town.

Betterton mounted the old, creaking steps. “Hiya, Grass,” he said.

The man peered at him out of sunken eyes. “Well, Ned. How are you, son?”

“Good, good. Mind if I take a load off?”

Billy B. pointed at the top step. “Suit yourself.”

“Thanks.” Betterton sat down gingerly, then raised the pack of cigarettes and shook one loose. “Coffin nail?”

Billy B. plucked the cigarette from the pack; Betterton lit it for him, then snugged the pack back into his shirt pocket. He did not smoke himself.

For the next few minutes, as Grass smoked his cigarette, the two chatted idly about local matters. Finally, Betterton worked around to the real purpose of his visit.

“Any strangers been around lately, Grass?” he asked casually.

Billy B. took a last deep drag on the cigarette, plucked it from his mouth, examined the filter, then mashed it out in a nearby kudzu vine. “Couple,” he said.

“Yeah? Tell me about them.”

“Let’s see now.” Billy B. screwed his face up in thought. “Jehovah’s Witness. Tried to give me one of her little magazines when she asked which way to Malfourche. I told her to take a right.”

Betterton forced a chuckle at this misdirection.

“Then there was that foreign fella.”

Betterton said, as casually as possible: “A foreign fella?”

“Had an accent.”

“What country you suppose he was from?”

“Europe.”

“I’ll be doggone.” Betterton shook his head. “Whenabouts was this?”

“I know exactly when it was.” The man counted on his fingers. “Eight days ago.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Billy B. nodded sagely. “It was the day before they discovered them Brodie folk murdered.”

This was more than Betterton had hoped for in his wildest dreams. Was this all there was to being an investigative reporter? “What did the fellow look like?”

“Tall. Skinny. Blond hair, ugly little mole under one eye. He was wearing a fancy raincoat, like you see in those spy movies.”

“You remember what kind of car he was driving?”

“Ford Fusion. Dark blue.”

Betterton stroked his chin thoughtfully. He knew that Ford Fusions were very commonly used as rental cars. “Did you tell any of this to the police, Grass?”

A truculent look stole over the man’s features. “Never asked me.”

It was all Betterton could do not to leap off the porch and race to his car. Instead he forced himself to stay, make a little more conversation. “The Brodies,” he said. “Bad business.”

Billy B. obliged that it was.

“Lot of excitement around these parts recently,” Betterton went on. “What with that accident at Tiny’s and all.”

Billy B. spat thoughtfully into the dirt. “That wasn’t no accident.”

“What do you mean?”

“That FBI feller. Blew the place up.”

“Blew it up?” Betterton repeated.

“Put a bullet in the propane tank. Blew everything to hell. Shotgunned a bunch of boats, too.”

“Well, I’ll be… Why did he do that?” This was stupendous news.

“Seems Tiny and his pals bothered him and his lady partner.”

“They bother lots of folks around here.” Betterton thought for a moment. “What did the FBI want down here?”

“No idea. Now you know everything I know.” He opened a fresh beer.