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:
“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.”
