“The devil hisself,” he hissed.
When I phoned Crowe's office, a deputy informed me that the sheriff was still in Fontana. I sat a moment, clicking my keys on the steering wheel and staring at Arthur's cabin.
Then I started the car and pulled out.
Though fat, black-green clouds were rapidly gathering, I drove with the windows down, the air buffeting my face. I knew wind would soon whip the trees, and rain would wash across the pavement and down the mountain face, but for the moment the air felt good.
Taking Highway 19, I headed back toward Bryson City. Two miles south of town I spotted a small wooden sign and turned off onto a gravel road.
The Riverbank Inn lay a quarter mile down the road, on the banks of the Tuckasegee River. It was a one- story, yellow stucco affair built in a 1950s ranch design. Its sixteen rooms stretched to the left and right of a central office, each with its own front entrance and porch in back. A plastic jack-o'-lantern grinned from every stoop, and an electrified skeleton hung from a tree outside the main entrance.
Clearly, the inn's appeal lay in setting and not in decorating or architectural style.
Pulling up outside the office, I saw only two other vehicles, a red Pontiac Grand Am with Alabama plates, and a blue Ford Taurus with North Carolina plates. The cars were parked in front of units two and seven.
As I passed the skeleton, it gave a warbly moan, followed by a high-pitched mechanical laugh. I wondered how often Primrose had to endure the display.
The motel lobby had the same feel as High Ridge House. A strand of bells hanging on the door, chintz curtains, knotty pine. A plaque welcomed me, and introduced the owners as Ralph and Brenda Stover. Another jack-o'-lantern smiled from the counter.
A man in a Redskins jersey sat beside Jack, leafing through a copy of
“May I help you?” Ralph had thinning blond hair, and his skin was pink and Simonize shiny.
“I'm Dr. Tempe Brennan,” I said, extending a hand.
“Ralph Stover.”
As we shook, his medical ID bracelet jangled like the bells on the door.
“I'm a friend of Primrose Hobbs,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Hobbs has been staying here for the past two weeks?”
“She has.”
“She's working with the crash investigation.”
“I know Mrs. Hobbs.” Ralph's smile never wavered.
“Is she in?”
“I can ring her room if you'd like.”
“Please.”
He dialed, listened, replaced the receiver.
“Mrs. Hobbs is not answering. Would you like to leave a message?”
“I take it she has not checked out.”
“Mrs. Hobbs is still registered.”
“Have you seen her today?”
“No.”
“When did you last see her?”
“I can't possibly keep track of all our guests.”
“Mrs. Hobbs hasn't been to work since Sunday, and I'm concerned about her. Could you please tell me what room she's in?”
“I'm sorry, but I can't do that.” The smile widened. “Policy.”
“She could be ill.”
“The maid would report a sick guest.”
Ralph was as polite as a policeman on a traffic stop. O.K. I can do polite.
“This is really important.” I placed a palm lightly on his wrist and looked into his eyes. “Can you tell me what Mrs. Hobbs drives so I can see if her car is in your lot?”
“No, I cannot.”
“Can we go together to check her room?”
“No.”
“Will you go while I wait here?”
“No, ma'am.”
