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MILLS & BOON
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For our brothers and sisters in the “Souper”
Life Group at New Spirit Community Church.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
ONE
Lori Dorsett let her rented sedan coast to a stop close to the curb on the eastbound side of Oliver Street. Without looking left or right—or at the map of Glory, North Carolina, on her lap—she knew that she’d parked opposite Founders Park and up the street from Snacks of Glory, “the home of the Glorious SOGgy Burger.” Another fifty feet or so and she’d be able to see the garish red-and-yellow neon hamburger glowing in the restaurant’s window.
“You do good work,” she murmured happily, confident that she’d learned the lay of the land. She’d memorized the locations of the small town’s landmark buildings: the town hall, the police headquarters, the fire department and the Glory National Bank.
And of course, Glory Community Church.
Immediately after breakfast, Lori had driven every one of Glory’s fifteen major streets at least three times—and many five or six—but in a random pattern to relieve suspicion should anyone be watching.
Like the lady cop on Main Street who decided that I was casing the bank.
Lori chuckled. It was too bad that she didn’t have her camera with her at the time. Lori would have loved to capture the look of disappointment on the cop’s face when she realized that Lori was a tourist in Glory and a guest at The Scottish Captain.
Later in the morning Lori had driven through Glory again, visiting the town’s best-known historic sites and buildings to take pictures, actually going to the trouble of unfolding her portable tripod and snapping shots from various angles.
Photography was the heart of Lori’s cover. She’d supposedly just finished a year-long certificate program in travel photography at the Chicago Institute of Graphic Arts. Her camera—a professional-quality Nikon digital single-lens reflex—was larger and more expensive than most tourists would carry. And she had a complete assortment of lenses and filters and memory cards—exactly the sort of extravagant camera system that would be owned by a well-heeled recent divorcée striving to transform a hobby into a new career.
Founders Park would be Lori’s last “photo shoot” of the day.
She climbed out of the car, crossed Oliver Street and set up her camera in front of the statue of Moira McGregor. The visitors’ guidebook that Lori had nearly memorized explained that Moira had been married to Duncan McGregor, the leader of the group of Scottish émigrés who had settled Glory in the spring of 1733.
“I’ll be with you in a flash, Moira. Hold that silly grin while I make a phone call.”
Lori surreptitiously scanned her surroundings. There were no trees in her immediate vicinity and the buildings on the south side of Oliver Street were fairly low, yielding a clear view of the sky.
She switched on her satellite telephone and dialed Kevin Pomeroy’s direct line in Chicago.
“A happy Tuesday morning to you, Mizz Dorsett,” a cheerful male voice boomed. “How’s life in the Southland?”
“Quiet. It’s the middle of a workday here and there are maybe a half dozen cars on the street.”
“What were you expecting? I warned you that Glory is a clone of Mayberry.”
“You were right, Kevin. I keep waiting for Andy Griffith to walk around the corner. I’ve seen ten different women who look like Aunt Bea.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Where we want me to be—The Scottish Captain.”
“Ha! I told you we didn’t need to risk making a reservation.”
“You were right again. The place has six bedrooms. They won’t fill up until the summer.”
“Watch out for bedbugs.”
“To the contrary. The Captain is a grand old house—lovely inside. The sort of place you should take Francine for a romantic weekend.” She laughed. “The town has a definite charm about it, too. There are several excellent restaurants, I’ve been told.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure that the art museum is inspirational, and I’ll bet the local galleria has an impressive collection of Fifth Avenue boutiques.”
“Well, cultural opportunities are somewhat limited, but I have passed a few interesting specialty shops.”
“Right! And there’s always the big box stores on the outskirts of town.” He moaned. “I almost feel guilty sending you to a hick town—until I remember that your last assignment was two months in San Francisco.” He added. “Do you have any sense of how long you’ll have to sojourn in beautiful downtown Glory?”
“Three weeks, maybe four. To be on the safe side, I told the owner of the B and B that I planned a month of picture taking in the region.”
“How’s the weather?”
“The month of May in this corner of North Carolina is glorious. No pun intended.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Half the businesses in town have names that start with Glorious or Glory. To give you an idea, there’s the Glorious Burger, the Glorious Table, the Glorious Dry Cleaner, the Glory Girls Shop…and my favorite—Snacks of Glory.”
“Speaking of business…have you run into the lawyer yet?”
“Yep. She helped me carry my bags up to my room. I recognized her immediately—she looks exactly like her photograph. Plump. Blond. Early sixties. Attractive.”
“This is too easy.” He chuckled. “You’re not going to tell me she’s in the bedroom next door, are you?”
“Nope. Apparently there’s a good-size apartment on the third floor of The Scottish Captain—she lives up there.”
“Good. Stay out of her way—she’s a sharp cookie.”
“So am I.”
Lori listened for his reply. When none came after about ten seconds, she asked, “What’s wrong?”
“I’m worried about you. I hope you’re taking proper security precautions.”
“Of course I am. For starters, I’m calling you on a satellite phone. No one in Glory can eavesdrop on the signal.” She readjusted the chunky device against her ear. It was a size larger than many of the latest cell phones; anyone watching would assume she still owned an old cell phone from the late ’90s.
“I wish you had a gun,” Kevin said. All the usual humor had left his voice
“I don’t need one.” She added, “These are church people—a bit crooked perhaps, but not organized criminals.”
“Yeah, but I still wish you had a weapon. There’s already been one murder related to the case.”
“On that happy note, I’ll say goodbye.”
“Watch your back, Lori.”
“I always do.”
She turned off the sat phone and thought about Glory Community Church—the epicenter of everything that had recently happened in Glory. She peered up at Moira McGregor’s smiling face. “First I’ll take your picture,” Lori said, “then I’ll drop by the church to see whom I can meet.”
Pastoral care was not among Reverend Daniel Hartman’s chief spiritual gifts. He knew that he could preach and teach with gusto, but neither expertise was especially useful when a longtime member of Glory Community Church wanted his hand held, his back patted and his anguish comforted.
When in doubt, let them talk it out.
“You we’re saying that you feel guilty…” Daniel prompted the man seated at the other side of the round table in his office.
“Worse than guilty.” George Ingles shook his head slowly. “I feel incredibly stupid. I can’t begin to understand how I let this mess happen. I’ve failed everyone in the church.”
Daniel managed to quell his urge to nod in agreement. He concurred with George’s harsh self-assessment. The man had been a world-class pinhead; he’d let the whole congregation down. And now the church was in dire straits because of the poor decision he had made.
“I’m sure,” Daniel said, “everyone at Glory Community has forgiven your…ah…misplaced confidence. You put your faith in a man who didn’t deserve your trust. Anyone might have made the same mistake.”
George stared at the floor. “I’m not anyone. I’ve had enough experience to know better. I should’ve spotted the warning signs.”
Daniel grunted noncommittally. George went on. “The fact is I don’t think anyone at church has forgiven me. Forgiveness is tough—especially when you have to forgive someone who lost close to a million dollars of your money.”
Daniel merely nodded. What could he say? George was right. In his role as Glory Community’s financial secretary, it had been his responsibility to invest the church’s nest egg wisely. The year before, John Caruthers, a member of the choir, had left the church a six-hundred-thousand-dollar cash bequest and ten rare books that the church had sold for more than $350,000. In keeping with John Caruthers’s wishes, the gift would be used to support the music ministries at Glory Community and other less affluent churches.
But now the money was gone. George had been conned by a man named Quentin Fisher, a supposedly Christian financial adviser of impeccable reputation. Quentin had worked at McKinley Investments Ltd., a stock brokerage of equally sterling repute. Quentin had talked George into making a series of risky investments that promised to double the church’s money in a few months. Four months later the church’s investment account had been wiped out—and Quentin was dead.
“And our plans and dreams for the wonderful music ministry are gone,” Daniel muttered to himself.
He glanced at George. Perhaps he should tell him the truth—that George knew less about finance than he thought he did. True, he had an M.B.A. and had been a vice president in a large corporation. The more important fact was that George had worked most of his career in human resources and had hardly any day-to-day experience managing large sums of money.
Daniel couldn’t bring himself to do it. “With God’s help, everything will be set right,” he said. “We have a good chance of winning our lawsuit against McKinley Investments. I have high hopes that we’ll get our money back.”
“Me, too. But who knows how long that will take? What do we do until then?” He rolled his eyes. “We made commitments to assist three poor churches. They are relying on us to help them, but now we don’t have the money to make good on our pledges. What are we going to do about that? I don’t have the heart to tell their pastors that we’re broke.”
“We must lean on God and muddle through the best we can.”
“I suppose so—even though I hate to think of myself as a muddler.”
Daniel looked up in response to a gentle tapping on his open office door. The church’s administrative secretary, Ann Trask, strode into the room, a determined expression on her young face. Daniel stifled a smile. Ann often seemed twenty-four going on forty, a petite blue-eyed blonde who would have made a great drill sergeant. In fact, Ann oversaw the daily business of Glory Community Church with startling efficiency. Daniel had come to rely on her intelligence and discernment.
“Yes, Ann,” he said.
“There’s a woman here—a visitor to Glory—who wants to photograph our stained-glass windows from the inside of the church…” She seemed to end her sentence in midthought.
“And?”
“I was going to say okay, but—” she sighed “—with everything that’s happened recently, I decided to make sure that you don’t mind.”
Before Daniel could respond, another person appeared in the doorway. “Perhaps I had better explain why I’m here, Reverend Hartman.”
Daniel looked past Ann in surprise. His unforeseen visitor struck him as extraordinarily pretty—a woman worth staring at. Her brown eyes seemed bigger than most, her mouth fuller and her nose better proportioned. She had brunette hair cut fairly short and a dark complexion. The woman stepped around Ann and into his office.
Out of the corner of his eye Daniel saw George Ingles leap to his feet. Daniel stood, too.
The woman walked toward them, her right hand extended. “My name is Lori Dorsett,” she said. “I’m from Chicago—I’ll be visiting Glory for the next month or so.” Daniel noted that she moved gracefully, but with the kind of powerful grace achieved by an athlete rather than a ballet dancer. “I’m staying at The Scottish Captain.”
He felt a twinge of annoyance when George—on the side of the table nearest to Lori—moved next to her more quickly than he could and lunged at her hand. “I’m George Ingles,” he said, voice oozing, “an elder of the church and our financial secretary. Let me welcome you to Glory. We like to think of ourselves as the friendliest small town in North Carolina.”
Daniel tried to take charge. “Friendly indeed, Miss Dorsett, welcome to Glory,” he said enthusiastically. “The Captain is one of our nicest bed-and-breakfasts.” But his words had no effect. George Ingles maintained his grip on Lori’s right hand and she seemed content to keep smiling at him.
Why would she feel that way? Daniel wondered. George was your run-of-the-mill, sixty-year-old retired businessman, slightly overweight, mostly bald and totally married. There were hundreds more like him living in Glory. Lori, by contrast, was a rarity in town—a stunning woman in her late thirties with a splendid figure and a bare ring finger.
Daniel tried again. “I take it that you want to photograph inside our sanctuary, Miss Dorsett?” he said, significantly louder this time.
Her smile faded as she turned toward him. “I’d hoped to begin with some outside photos,” she said, “and then, with your permission, to move inside the building.” She made a vague gesture in the direction of the sanctuary. “Your stained-glass windows are really quite lovely.”
“You have a good eye. Our five windows were imported from Scotland in 1858. They were designed by Daniel Cottier, the famous Scottish stained-glass artist, and crafted in the equally famous glass studios of James Ballantine, of Edinburgh. Each window illustrates one of Jesus’ parables.” He let himself grin. “See if you can deduce which parables when you photograph the windows.”
“I’m afraid I haven’t opened a Bible in more than twenty years. I’m not sure if I even remember where to find the parables of Jesus.”
“Then you don’t belong to a church back in Chicago?”
She shook her head. “Sorry—I haven’t thought of myself as a Christian since I was fourteen years old.” She added, “I hope that won’t disqualify me from taking pictures inside your church?”
“Not at all. Our sanctuary windows have been one of Glory’s attractions for more than a century and a half. We’re delighted that visitors want to take pictures—regardless of their beliefs.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate your understanding.”
George Ingles jumped back into the conversation. “You might feel differently about your Christianity if you attended one of our Sunday worship services.” He beamed at her. “Our choir and our praise band are first-rate—the finest in Glory. And Daniel, here, delivers a pretty good sermon.”
“I have to admit that I’m tempted…” she said. “I promise that I’ll think about it.”
George patted Lori’s shoulder. “We can’t ask more than that, now, can we?”
“It was lovely meeting you,” Lori said to George, and then to Daniel, “Thank you, once again, Reverend Hartman. I promise that I won’t be a nuisance.”
Daniel returned a halfhearted wave to Lori as she left, then glanced at George, who was clearly waiting for Lori to be out of earshot before he said anything else. A moment later the church’s heavy front door swung shut.
“It’s the story of my life,” George said with a mock display of anguish. “The ladies love me, even though I never disguise the fact that I’m married. I tell you, Daniel, it’s a curse.”
Daniel knew that his friend was joking, but he still felt another round of annoyance at George’s delight. Why did Lori act the way she did? What did George have that he didn’t?
Enough! Stop thinking like a jerk.
Daniel took a deep breath and wondered why he felt the way he did.
TWO
Emma Neilson glanced at the clock above The Scottish Captain’s aging stove and felt a flutter of excitement cut through her rotten mood. Noon! In less than ten minutes she would look out the kitchen window and see Rafe—her husband of scarcely two months—marching along the flagstone path behind the Captain.
Rafe, I need a hug. Badly.
Rafe’s job as Glory’s deputy police chief required that he work long days, often stretching into evenings. Her job as owner and proprietor of The Scottish Captain put her on duty at about six every morning. Their daily lunches together were an oasis of calm during the middle of their twelve-hour workdays that they both could enjoy.
Emma banged a stoneware plate on the small table in the kitchen, fully aware that she was taking her annoyance out on the crockery. Most lunches she could talk about pleasant things with Rafe—but not today. Her morning of shopping in Glory had been decidedly disagreeable. She’d been glared at by three different people—two of whom she didn’t even know.
Ill will toward her seemed to be growing worse with each passing day. It had started a week earlier when Rafe had arrested Tony Taylor for the murder of Quentin Fisher. Many of Glory’s upstanding citizens thought that killing Fisher, a big-city stranger, was a fabulous idea, a fate he richly deserved for defrauding Glory Community Church and trying to con Tony Taylor. They resented Rafe, and Emma, for doing his duty.
Emma glanced at the cover of her latest marketing brochure, fresh from the printer. Her marketing communications firm had sent over the first dozen copies. The photo on the cover, one of her favorites, captured the Captain on a crisp fall day when the trees had reached the peak of color. White letters above the photo proclaimed, “The Scottish Captain: A Charming B and B in North Carolina’s Friendliest Town.”
Friendliest town, my foot.
The clock inched closer to twelve-ten. Emma checked on Calvin Constable’s latest culinary experiments, which had begun to bubble nicely in the microwave. Calvin, her breakfast chef, was an inveterate innovator, whose latest project was to develop a series of hot entrées that combined North Carolina cuisine with international dishes. The dish in the microwave was Southern Fried Thai Chicken. Well, how bad could it be?
Emma turned the brochure over. The back cover illustration was a stylized map of Perquimans County that made the town of Glory seem larger and more important then Hertford, the county seat.
The kitchen door flew open and Rafe entered, his cheeks rosy from a fast walk from police headquarters. Her heart sang to see him looking so happy. She hurried over to hug him and be hugged. After a long welcome-home kiss, Rafe sniffed the air. “Chicken?”
“Mostly,” Emma replied. “It’s covered with peanut sauce that’s flavored with a mix of Thai and Southern spices.”
His face registered mild surprise. “Calvin strikes again.”
“I made us sweet tea to go with it,” she said. “With a touch of cardamom to echo the Thai theme.”
Rafe poured himself a glass of tea. “Mmm. Delicious.” He added after another swallow, “How’s your day going so far, my love?”
She sighed softly then said, “You’ll probably wish you hadn’t asked, but I’ve had better mornings. The Send-Rafe-Neilson-a-Nastygram team was hard at work on the streets of Glory.”
“Sorry about that.” He shook his head. “What can I say, except that’s what small towns are like?”
“The scary thing is that two people I don’t know joined in the fun. They must have recognized me from the picture of us that ran in the Glory Gazette.”
“Have I told you how beautiful you look in that photograph?”
“Don’t change the subject. Jacqueline Naismith—a member of our choir—buttonholed me on Main Street and gave me a ten-minute overview on what she thought about you arresting Tony.”
“I suppose it’s natural that folks in town are mad at me.”
“Actually, they’re mad at us. By some weird logic, I became responsible for the actions of the police department when I married you.”
“I’m sure people will soon calm down.”
“I’ll bet they don’t, Rafe. It will be months before Tony goes to trial. We’ll be castigated until all the facts come out.” She shook her head. “‘Thou shalt not kill’—except when someone cheats your church out of a small fortune, then it’s ‘be my guest.’”
Rafe took her hand. “That’s not what’s going on. Really! Most people are angry that Tony was denied bail and is stuck in jail. They blame the police, although we didn’t have anything to do with the judge refusing bail. That’s almost inevitable with a charge of first-degree murder.”
Emma felt herself shiver. “I cringe every time you say ‘first-degree murder.’ I find it hard to believe that Tony Taylor murdered anyone, a belief I apparently share with most of Glory’s upstanding citizens.”
“There’s a mountain of evidence that says he killed Quentin Fisher. I had to arrest him.”
“I’m sure you’re right…” Emma hesitated. What more was there to say?
Rafe took another sip from his glass. “I really like what you’ve done with the tea. I expect the Captain’s guests will, also. Will you offer it to them?”
She shrugged. “Bed-and-breakfast guests prefer coffee and hot tea to start the day. Iced tea is a drink best suited for the afternoon.”
“How many guests do we have this week?”
Emma bit back a smile. She hoped that Rafe would grow to love The Scottish Captain as much as she did. Every “we” he spoke encouraged her. “A total of five,” she said. “A couple from Virginia Beach, a couple from Washington, D.C., and a woman from Chicago who’s practicing to be a travel photographer.”
Rafe picked up one of the marketing brochures that Emma had left on the table. “Now here’s a fine example of excellent travel photography—I like this picture of the Captain.”
Emma nodded. “Me, too. The old building never looked better.”
The photo had been taken nine months earlier, a few days after the three-story wooden structure with its large windows, deep porch and wide front steps had been newly painted. Emma had chosen the color scheme carefully: cream for the clapboards and corn-flower-blue for the wooden shutters and trim work. The eye-catching double oaken front doors, both freshly varnished, provided a lovely accent. The dressed-up inn looked solid and imposing, just the sort of house a Scottish captain might commission for himself in 1895—assuming he wanted to build an elegant residence for rich single women. That was the building’s original purpose.
“However…” Rafe tapped the back of the brochure. “You forgot to change your last name to Neilson. This says, ‘Emma McCall, Proprietor.’”
Emma grabbed a brochure, horrified. Her new brochure would have to be reprinted. She shuddered at the thought of what it would cost. “Nice catch,” she managed to say. “I should have let you be one of my proofreaders.”
Emma felt a surge of relief when the microwave dinged. Serving lunch would take her mind off the defective brochure. She took the lid off the casserole. “This smells good,” she said, serving up spoonfuls of chicken. “It looks peanuttier than I expected.”