Ryan stepped back. I unlocked my door and drove off, too tired and heartsick to say good night.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Since every room in the area had been grabbed by the press and NTSB, I was booked into a smal 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 folowed a flagstone path flanked by metal lawn chairs. Bels jangled as I opened the front door. Inside, the house smeled 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 tal, with no makeup and thick gray hair puled into an odd sausage rol on the top of her head. She wore a long denim skirt and a red sweatshirt with Praise the Lord scroled across her chest.

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 tels 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'l 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 smal hand-painted plaque. We made a ninety-degree turn at the far end of the hal and stopped in front of a single door. Its nameplate said Magnolia.

'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.'