"No, sir."

"Edna Farrell was a fine Christian lady. They should have done better by her."

"Would you mind telling me who bought the camp?"

"Would you mind tellin' me why you're wantin' to know my business?"

I was quickly revising my estimate of Edward Arthur. Because he was old and taciturn I had presumed his faculties might be dulled. The man in front of me was as cagey as Kasparov. I decided to play it straight.

"I'm no longer involved in the crash investigation because I've been accused of acting improperly. The charges are false."

"Eyeh."

"I believe there's something wrong in that lodge, and I want to know what. The information may help clear my name, but I think my efforts are being blocked."

"You been there?"

"Not inside."

He started to speak, but a gust of wind grabbed his hat and sent it reeling across the garden. Purple lips drew back against toothless gums, and a scarecrow arm shot out.

Bolting, I overtook the hat and pinned it with a foot. Then I brushed it clean and carried it back to Arthur.

The old man shivered as he took the boater and pressed it to his chest.

"Would you like your shirt, sir?"

"Turnin' cold," he said, and started for the wheelbarrow.

When he'd finished buttoning, I helped him gather his tools and store them with the wheelbarrow in a shed behind the cabin. As he closed the door, I re-posed my question.

"Who bought your land, Mr. Arthur?"

He clicked the padlock, tugged it twice, and turned to face me.

"You'd best stay clear of that place, young lady."

"I promise you, sir, I won't go there alone."

Arthur regarded me for so long, I thought he wasn't going to answer. Then he stepped close and raised his face to mine.

"Prentice Dashwood."

He spat "Prentice" with such force that saliva misted my chin.

"Prentice Dashwood bought your land?"

He nodded, and the watery old eyes darkened.

"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 PC World. PC World. He looked up when I jingled in, and smiled at me across the lobby. I assumed this was Ralph. He looked up when I jingled in, and smiled at me across the lobby. I assumed this was Ralph.

"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."

Pulling back my hand, I tried another tack.

"Would Mrs. Stover remember when she last saw Mrs. Hobbs?"

Ralph laced his fingers and laid his hands on the magazine. The hair on his forearms looked pale and wiry against the calaminepink skin.

"You are asking the same questions the others asked, and my wife and I will give you the same answers we gave to them. Unless served with an official warrant we will open no room, and divulge no information about any guest." His voice was buttery smooth.

"What others?"

Ralph drew a long, patient breath.

"Is there anything else I can help you with?"

I honed my voice to scalpel sharp.

"If Primrose Hobbs comes to any harm because of your policy, policy,you'll wish you'd never sent away for that hotel-motel management course."

Ralph Stover's eyes narrowed but the smile held firm.

I pulled a business card from my purse and jotted down my cell phone number.

"If you have a change of heart, give me a call."

I turned and strode toward the door.

"You have a nice day, ma'am."

I heard the flip of a magazine page, the jangle of a bracelet.

Gunning the engine, I raced from the lot, sped up the highway, and pulled onto the shoulder fifty yards north. If I knew human nature, curiosity would drive Stover to Primrose's room. And he would go there immediately.

Hurriedly locking the car, I sprinted back to the Riverbank turnoff and cut into the woods. Then I picked my way forward, paralleling the gravel road, until I had a clear view of the motel.

My intuition was right on. Ralph was just arriving at unit four. He checked to his left, then his right, unlocked the door, and slipped inside.

Minutes passed. Five. Ten. My breathing slowed to normal. The sky darkened and the wind picked up. Overhead, pines arched and dipped, like ballerinas doing arm positions sur les pointes. sur les pointes.

I thought about Primrose. Though we'd known each other for years, I knew very little about the woman. She had married, divorced, had a son somewhere. Beyond that, her life was a blank. Why was that? Had she been unwilling to share, or had I never bothered to ask? Had I treated Primrose like one of the many who pass time with us, delivering our mail, typing our reports, cleaning our houses, while we pursue our own interests, oblivious to theirs?

Perhaps. But I knew Primrose Hobbs well enough to be certain of one thing: She would never willingly leave a job unfinished.

I waited. Lightning streaked from an eggplant cloud, illuminating its interior like a million-watt artery. Thunder rumbled. The storm was not far off.

Finally, Stover emerged, pulled the door shut and jiggled the knob, then hurried up the sidewalk. When he was safely inside the office, I began circling, keeping my distance and using the trees for cover. The back of the inn stretched ahead of me on one side, the river on the other, trees between them. I moved through the trees to a point I estimated was opposite unit four, then paused to listen.

Water boiling over rocks. Boughs swishing in the wind. A train whistle. Valves slamming inside my chest. Thunder, louder now. Quicker.

I crept to the edge of the tree line and peeked out.

A row of wooden porches projected from the back of the motel, each with a black wrought-iron numeral nailed to its railing. My instincts had been good again. Only five yards of grass separated me from unit four.

I took a deep breath, darted across the gap, and double-stepped the four risers. Dashing across the porch, I reached out and yanked the screen door. It opened with a grating squeak. The wind had suddenly calmed, and the sound seemed to shatter the heavy air. I froze.

Stillness.

Sliding between the screen and inner door, I leaned close and peered through the glass. Green-and-white gingham blocked my view. I tried the knob. No go.

I eased the screen door closed, moved to the window, and tried again. More gingham.