I added my car to a half dozen others in a postage-stamp lot to the left of the house, and followed a flagstone path flanked by metal lawn chairs. Bells jangled as I opened the front door. Inside, the house smelled of wood polish, Pine-Sol, and simmering lamb.
Irish stew is perhaps my favorite dish. As usual, it brought Gran to mind. Twice in two days? Maybe the old girl was looking down.
In moments a woman appeared. She was middle-aged, about five feet tall, with no makeup and thick gray hair pulled into an odd sausage roll on the top of her head. She wore a long denim skirt and a red sweatshirt with Praise the Lord scrolled across her chest.
Before I could speak, the woman embraced me. Surprised, I stood angled down with hands out, trying not to strike her with my overnighter or laptop.
After a decade the woman stepped back and gazed at me with the intensity of a player receiving serve at Wimbledon.
“Dr. Brennan.”
“Tempe.”
“It's the Lord's work you're doing for these poor dead children.”
I nodded.
“Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. He tells us that in the Book of Psalms.”
Oh, boy.
“I'm Ruby McCready, and I'm honored to have you at High Ridge House. I intend to look after each and every one of you.”
I wondered who else was quartered there, but said nothing. I would find out soon enough.
“Thank you, Ruby.”
“Let me take that.” She reached for my bag. “I'll show you to your room.”
My hostess led me past a parlor and dining room, up a carved wooden staircase, and down a corridor with closed doors on either side, each bearing a small hand-painted plaque. We made a ninetydegree turn at the far end of the hall and stopped in front of a single door. Its nameplate said Magnolia.
“Since you're the only lady, I put you in Magnolia.” Though we were alone, Ruby's voice had become a whisper, her tone conspiratorial. “It's the only one with its own WC. I reckoned you'd appreciate the privacy.”
WC? Where in the world did they still refer to bathrooms as water closets?
Ruby followed me in, placed my satchel on the bed, and began fluffing pillows and lowering shades like a bellman at the Ritz.
The fabric and wallpaper explained the floral appellation. The window was draped, the tables skirted, and ruffles adorned every edge in the room. The maple rocker and bed were stacked with pillows, and a million figurines filled a glass-fronted cabinet. On top sat ceramic renderings of Little Orphan Annie and her dog, Sandy, Shirley Temple dressed as Heidi, and a collie I assumed to be Lassie.
My taste in home furnishings tends toward the simple. Though I have never cared for the starkness of modern, give me Shaker or Hepplewhite and I am happy. Surround me with clutter and I start to get itchy.
“It's lovely,” I said.
“I'll leave you to yourself now. Dinner's at six, so you missed that, but I left stew to simmerin'. Would you like a bowl?”
“No, thank you. I'm going to turn in.”
“Have you eaten dinner?”
“I'm not very hungr—”
“Look at you, you're thin as the broth at a homeless shelter. You can't go with nothin' on your stomach.”
Why was everyone so concerned with my diet?
“I'll bring up a tray.”
“Thank you, Ruby.”
“I don't need thankin'. One last thing. We've got no locks here at High Ridge House, so you come and go as you like.”
Though I'd showered at the site, I unpacked my few things and took a long, hot bath. Like rape victims, those who clean up after mass fatalities often overbathe, driven by a need to purge mind and body.
I came out of the bathroom to stew, brown bread, and a mug of milk. My cell phone rang as I was poking at a turnip. Fearing the messaging service would kick in, I lunged for my purse, dumped its contents onto the bed, and fished through hair spray, wallet, passport, organizer, sunglasses, keys, and makeup. I finally found the phone and clicked on, praying the caller was Katy.
It was. My daughter's voice triggered such emotion in me, I had to struggle to keep my voice steady.
Though evasive about her whereabouts, she sounded happy and healthy. I gave her the number at High Ridge House. She told me she was with a friend and would return to Charlottesville on Sunday night. I didn't request, nor did she offer, the gender specifics of her pal.
The soap and water, combined with the long-awaited call from my daughter, had done the trick. Almost giddy with relief, I was suddenly famished. I devoured Ruby's stew, set my travel alarm, and fell into bed.
Maybe the House of Chintz wouldn't be so bad.
The next morning I rose at six, put on clean khakis, brushed my teeth, dabbed on blush, and drew my hair up under a Charlotte Hornets' cap. Good enough. I headed downstairs, intending to ask Ruby about laundry arrangements.
Andrew Ryan occupied a bench at a long pine table in the dining room. I took a chair opposite, returned Ruby's cheery “Good morning,” and waited while she poured coffee. When the kitchen door swung closed behind her, I spoke.
“What are you doing here?”
“Is that all you ever say to me?”
I waited.
“The sheriff recommended this place.”
“Above all others.”
“It's nice,” he said, gesturing around the room. “Loving.” He raised his mug to a message above our heads: Jesus Is Love had been burned into knotty pine and varnished for posterity.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Cynicism causes wrinkles.”
“It doesn't. Who told you?”
“Crowe.”
“What's wrong with the Comfort Inn?”
“Full.”
“Who else is here?”
“There are a couple of NTSB boys upstairs and a special agent from the FBI. What makes them special?”
I ignored that.
“I'm looking forward to guy-bonding in the bathroom. Two others are on the main floor, and I hear there are some journalists squeezed into a bonus room in the basement.”
“How did you get a room here?”
The Viking blues went little-boy innocent. “Must have been lucky timing. Or maybe Crowe has pull.”
“Don't even think about using my bathroom.”
“Cynicism.”
Ruby arrived with ham, eggs, fried potatoes, and toast. Though my normal routine is cereal and coffee, I dug in like a recruit at boot camp.
Ryan and I ate in silence while I did some mental sorting. His presence annoyed me, but why? Was it his supreme self-confidence? His custodial attitude? His invasion of my turf? The fact that less than a year ago he'd prioritized the job over me and disappeared from my life? Or the fact that he'd reappeared exactly when I'd needed help?
As I reached for toast I realized he'd said nothing about his stint undercover. Fair enough. Let him bring it up.
“Jam, please.”
He passed it.
Ryan had gotten me out of a nasty spot.
I spread blackberry preserves thicker than lava.
The wolves weren't Ryan's fault. Nor was the crash.
Ruby poured refills.
And the man has just lost his partner, for God's sake.
Compassion overrode irritation.
“Thanks for your help with the wolf thing.”
“They weren't wolves.”
“What?” Irritation boomeranged back.
“They weren't wolves.”
“I suppose it was a pack of cocker spaniels.”
“There are no wolves in North Carolina.”
“Crowe's deputy talked about wolves.”
“The guy probably wouldn't know a wombat from a caribou.”
“Wolves have been reintroduced into North Carolina.” I was sure I'd read that somewhere.
“Those are red wolves and they're on a reserve down east, not in the mountains.”
“I suppose you're an expert on North Carolina wildlife.”