I knew the name. Petricelli was a bigwig in the Quebec Hells Angels, reputed to have ties to organized crime. The Canadian and American governments had been investigating him for years.
“What was Pepper doing in Georgia?”
“About two months ago a small-time trafficker named Jacques Fontana ended up charcoal in a Subaru Outback. When every road led to his door, Pepper decided to sample the hospitality of his brothers in Dixie. Long story short, Pepper was spotted in a bar in Atlanta, the locals nailed him, and last week Georgia agreed to extradite. Bertrand was hauling his ass back to Quebec.”
We'd arrived at my car. Across at the overlook, a spotlighted man held a mike while an assistant powdered his face.
“Which brings more players to the table,” Ryan went on, his voice leaden.
“Meaning?”
“Pepper had juice. If he'd decided to deal, a lot of his friends would be in deep-dish shit.”
“I'm not following.”
“Some powerful people probably wanted Pepper dead.”
“Enough to kill eighty-seven other people?”
“Without a hitch in their breathing.”
“But that plane was full of kids.”
“These guys aren't the Jesuits.”
I was too shocked to respond.
Seeing my face, Ryan switched tacks. “Hungry?”
“I need to sleep.”
“You need to eat.”
“I'll stop for a burger,” I lied.
Ryan stepped back. I unlocked my door and drove off, too tired and heartsick to say good night.
* * *
Since every room in the area had been grabbed by the press and NTSB, I was booked into a small B & B on the outskirts of Bryson City. It took several wrong turns and two inquiries to find it.
True to its name, High Ridge House sat atop a summit at the end of a long, narrow lane. It was a two-story white farmhouse with intricate woodwork on the doors and windows, and on the beams, banisters, and railings of a wide veranda wrapping around the front and sides. In the porch light I could see wooden rockers, wicker planters, ferns. Very Victorian.
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
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
“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?
