"How about an address?"
"Bass owns and operates a country inn just south of Lexington, Virginia, called Anchorage House. You know the kind-no pets or kids allowed. Fifteen rooms complete with antique plumbing and four-poster beds, all slept in by George Washington."
"Paul, I owe you one."
"Care to let me in on it?"
"Too early."
"You sure it's not some hanky-panky the Bureau should know about?"
"It's not in your jurisdiction."
"That figures."
"Thanks again."
"Okay, buddy. Write when you find work."
Pitt hung up the receiver and took a slow breath and grinned. Another veil of the enigma had been pulled aside. He decided not to contact Abe Steiger, not just yet. He looked up at Folsom.
"Can you cover for me over the weekend?"
Folsom grinned back. "Far be it from me to insinuate the boss isn't essential to the operation, but what the hell, I think we can muddle through the next forty-eight hours without your exalted presence. What you got cooking?"
"A thirty-four-year-old mystery," said Pitt. "I'm going to dig out the answers while relaxing in the peace and quiet of a quaint country inn."
Folsom peered at him for several seconds, and then, seeing nothing behind Pitt's green eyes, gave up and turned back to the blackboard.
31
On the morning flight into Richmond, Pitt looked like any one of a dozen other passengers who seemed to be dozing. His eyes were closed, but his mind was churning over the enigma of the plane in the lake. It was unlike the Air Force to sweep an accident under the rug, he thought. Under normal circumstances, a full-scale investigation would have been launched to determine why the crew had strayed so far off the charted course. Logical answers eluded him, and he opened his eyes when the Eastern Airlines jet touched down and began taxiing up to the terminal.
Pitt rented a car and drove through the Virginia countryside. The lovely, rolling landscape imparted mingled aromas of pine and fall rains. Just past noon he turned off Interstate Eighty-one and drove into Lexington. Not pausing to enjoy the quaint architecture of the town, he angled south on a narrow state highway. He soon came to a sign picturesquely out of place with the rural surroundings, designed with a ยป. nautical anchor welcoming guests and pointing up a gravel road toward the inn.
42
There was no one behind the desk and Pitt was reluctant to break the silence in the neat and meticulously dusted lobby. He was about to say the hell with it and hit the bell when a tall woman, almost as tall as he in her riding boots, entered carrying a high-backed chair. She looked to be in her early thirties and wore jeans and a matching denim blouse with a red bandana tied over her ash-blond hair. Her skin displayed almost no evidence of a summer tan but had the smoothness of a fashion model's. Something about her unruffled expression at abruptly noticing a stranger suggested to him a woman who was high bred, the kind who is taught to act reserved under any circumstances short of fire and earthquake.
"I'm sorry," she said, setting the chair down beside a beautifully proportioned candle stand. "I didn't hear you drive up."
"That's an interesting chair," he said. "Shaker, isn't it?"
She looked at him approvingly. "Yes, made by Elder Henry Blinn, of Canterbury."
"You have many valuable pieces here."
"Admiral Bass, the owner, "gets the credit for what you see." She moved behind the desk. "He's quite an authority on antique collecting, you know."
"I wasn't aware of that."
"Do you wish a room?"
"Yes, for tonight only."
"A pity you can't stay longer. A local stock theater opens in our barn the evening after next."
"I've a knack for poor timing," Pitt said, smiling.