'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.

===OO=OOO=OO===

When I phoned Crowe's office, a deputy informed me that the sheriff was stil 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 puled 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 smal 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, yelow 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.

Puling 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, folowed 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 bels 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. 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 bels 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?'