Gone to Glory
Ron and Janet Benrey

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.”

“I like peanuts.” Rafe held out his hand, Emma took it. “Lord, thank You for the food and for all Your bounty,” he said. “And thank You for Calvin, who never ceases to amaze us. Amen.”

Emma tasted a forkful of the new dish. “Hmm. I’m not sure I can eat this. It tastes…odd. Perhaps Calvin used too much lemongrass.”

Rafe took a bite and promptly made a face. “By any chance do you have the makings of a grilled-cheese sandwich?”

“A wonderful idea.” Emma leaped from her chair. “Two grilled-cheese sandwiches coming up.”

She found a package of sliced Swiss cheese and soon had two sandwiches grilling in a heavy cast-iron skillet. “This won’t take long.”

The inside kitchen door opened without warning and Christine Stanton’s head appeared. “Something smells delicious,” she said.

“True.” Emma gestured toward the casserole full of Southern Fried Thai Chicken. “But Calvin’s latest experiment tastes like an explosion in a spice shop. We’re going to have grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches instead.” She smiled. “Want to join us for lunch, Christine?”

“Thanks, but I have a lunch date with Daniel Hartman and George Ingles at Glory Community Church.” She beamed at Emma. “This is first time since I retired that I get a chance to offer legal advice. I’m looking forward to being a real lawyer again.”

“Ah. The lawsuit against McKinley Investments.”

“My one and only case,” she said.

Rafe shifted his chair so that he could see Christine without straining his neck. “How goes the battle?”

“It goes slowly,” Christine replied. “My big problem is the alleged murder of Quentin Fisher. Because of that, McKinley Investments is taking their own sweet time responding to our letters of complaint. I presume that their lawyer is telling the firm to wait until all the facts come out at Tony Taylor’s murder trial.” She looked up happily. “I think we can speed things along by encouraging the McKinley firm to settle.”

“Are you sure you can’t have a sandwich with us?” Emma said.

“Nope. I heard voices in the kitchen and dropped in to say hello—but they expect me up at the church, because I’m bringing lunch.” She punctuated her words with a salute-like wave. “Gotta go.”

Emma waved back. “See you later.” She kept waving as Christine let the kitchen door close behind her.

“That woman is a gift from God,” Rafe said.

“Both for the church and me,” Emma said.

Emma had married Rafe knowing they faced a difficult problem. When she moved to his charming house with its fantastic view of Albemarle Sound, there would be no one on duty at night at The Scottish Captain. No one to admit late arrivals or guests who’d lost their keys. No one to call in case of an emergency. No one to provide an extra blanket or pillow or towel to a guest who needed one.

And Emma had no choice but to move: the Captain’s third-floor owner’s apartment was simply too small to accommodate three people—especially when one of them was a lively teenager. Kate, Rafe’s fifteen-year-old daughter had her own bedroom—and her own bathroom—in the charming blue-clapboard Victorian bungalow on Front Street that Rafe owned.

Christine had checked into the Captain a month before the wedding, told Emma she was in the process of moving to Glory, and asked where she might find an apartment in town. Emma quickly offered her the Captain’s owners’ apartment at a remarkably low rent—with one stipulation. “You’ll be the Captain’s night manager,” she’d explained. “Your duties will be simple. Help the guests when I’m not here.”

Christine agreed immediately—and had proven to be ideal for the job.

Emma lifted the cooked sandwiches from the skillet and joined Rafe at the table. “Do we need to say thanks again?” she asked.

Rafe began with a big smile. “Thank You, God, for grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches, and for not requiring that we eat Southern Fried Thai Chicken. Amen.”

Rafe took a bite of his sandwich. “Perfection!”

“I agree. We should frame these sandwiches rather than eat them.”

“Speaking of frames…” Rafe said. “Tell me about the fifth guest—the gal from Chicago who’s driving a blue rental. The one who wants to be a travel photographer. Is that why she spent the morning driving around Glory?”

Emma nodded. “She’s assembling a portfolio of photos of the Albemarle region.”

“I’ll tell Angie Ringgold that she’s not a master criminal. Angie was on patrol this morning. She saw the rental car looping back and forth through Glory. She said that she followed the car down Main Street at least five times. Angie really got suspicious when she saw it slow down in front of the bank.”

“Did she intercept the driver?”

“Angie was about to stop her car, but then it surprised her and drove to the Captain. The driver went inside and came out carrying a bunch of camera gear. Angie last saw her taking a picture of Moira McGregor in Founders Park.”

“Poor Angie.” Emma laughed. “For your information, the lady’s name is Lori Dorsett. She’s from Chicago. I don’t know much about her, except that she was divorced last year and is trying to launch a new career as a travel photographer. She plans to stay in Glory for a month or so and take a lot of pictures.”

Rafe took another bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a gulp of spiced iced tea. “Angie told me that the gal is a real looker—is that true?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Emma said airily.

“Wow! She must be gorgeous.”

Emma balled up her napkin and threw it at Rafe’s head.

It had been a snap decision—but an inspired one, Lori thought—to tell Reverend Hartman that she wanted to take pictures of the stained-glass windows from outside the church. Now she was perfectly positioned on the church’s lawn, adjacent to King Street, to listen in on the meeting in the pastor’s office.

Lori reached deep into her oversize black-leather camera case, into a small compartment near the bottom. The gadget she found resembled a plastic candy bar but was the single most expensive item in the bag. It was a bugging device—a remote sound monitor—that could surveil a room a hundred yards away. She began to mount the innocuous-looking gadget on the top of her tripod.

Her hand slipped. She caught the remote sound monitor before it hit the ground.

Easy girl. You’re still shaking.

Lori inhaled slowly, counted to five and then exhaled. She’d almost lost her composure when, without any warning, she was introduced to George Ingles in the reverend’s office. She hadn’t expected to run into the one person in Glory she absolutely, positively had to meet. And amazingly he had turned out to be a flirtatious jerk.

Perhaps that will come in handy someday?

Two more gifts of fabulous luck. In fact, things were going almost too well. When would the good fortune run out?

Lori drove the unpleasant thought out of her head and asked herself a more productive question: what were George and the pastor meeting about?

She immediately offered herself an answer: the church’s finances. What else would Daniel Hartman have to talk about with George Ingles?

“You’ll know for sure in about thirty seconds,” she murmured, “if you can get this silly gadget working.”

Lori tried again to attach the tripod’s screw to the bottom of the remote monitor. This time the threads engaged; she tightened the screw gently and made sure that the working side of the device was pointed toward Reverend Hartman’s window. She knew that there were two nearly invisible lens openings on the front edge. One lens had an infrared laser behind it, the other a sensitive optical detector.

The device was really quite simple in principle: it directed an invisible beam of infrared light at the pastor’s office window and picked up some of the light reflected off the glass. The cleverness of the device lay in its ability to detect tiny vibrations of the window glass caused by the sound waves generated by people talking inside the room.

She placed a small earpiece in her left ear—the same kind of wireless earphone that many cell phone users wear—and activated a small switch on the bottom of the sound monitor. Now came the tricky part: she would have to aim the laser beam at the pastor’s window while nonchalantly appearing to do something else.

She picked up her camera and stared at its controls while she slowly moved the tripod’s pan and tilt head.

Lori’s earpiece came to life. “…she’ll be here with lunch soon, George. She’s bringing sandwiches from Snacks of Glory. I like them even better than their burgers.”

A burger would taste terrific about now.

Lori abruptly felt hungry. She wished that she had bought a Glorious SOGgy Burger when she had the chance. All she had with her now was a half-eaten granola bar and a small bottle of water. They would have to do until the meeting was over. The conversation going on in the pastor’s office was far more important than her hunger.

“Then maybe we should talk about a special stewardship campaign before she arrives.” Lori immediately identified the speaker as George Ingles. It was easy to tell him and the pastor apart because Reverend Hartman’s voice dripped with authority. What else would you expect from a man who had been a U.S. Army chaplain for more than twenty years and had risen to the rank of full colonel?

She recalled the brief encounter in his office. Daniel Hartman also moved with authority, and he was better-looking than any clergyman she could remember—not that she had dealt with all that many men of the cloth. She had his photograph—a large color shot of him in his full dress Army uniform—safely stored in her laptop computer, along with the rest of the dossier that Kevin Pomeroy had provided. Hartman was forty-eight, but looked much younger. He was over six feet tall, fair-complected, with lively hazel eyes and a full head of reddish-brown hair. He had grown up in Nashua, New Hampshire, earned a bachelor’s degree in philosophy from Dartmouth, a master’s in theology from Gordon-Conwell and, more recently, a doctor of ministry degree from Erskine Seminary. He had also earned two Purple Hearts, one in Panama, the other in Iraq, where he’d been wounded during the first Gulf War. Lori recalled the details from the dossier Kevin had provided and chuckled to herself. She probably knew more about the good Reverend Hartman than most of the members of his congregation.

His powerful voice filled Lori’s ear again. “Well, you’re our financial guru, George. The church’s Elder Board will agree to do what you recommend. Do you really think we need a special campaign?”

“Yeah, unfortunately we do. Hopefully, a special fund-raiser will replenish enough money to let us pay the bills and honor the pledges we made those poor churches.” He added, “I foresee only one hitch. Our members might hold back their giving if they haven’t forgiven my mistakes.”

Lori snorted. Forgive George Ingles? I would have booted him out of the church building. He’d made some truly stupid fast-buck investments for the church, but it was hard to determine whether he should have known better.

Lori flinched as a voice behind her said, “Hi, Lori. How goes the picture-taking?”

Lori felt her surveillance training kick in. She willed herself to turn around slowly, seemingly without concern or surprise. She simultaneously took a step away from the tripod. A moment later she was gazing at Christine Stanton’s smiling face.

“It’s too soon to tell, Christine. I’m trying to figure out which lens and filter combination I need to photograph the stained-glass windows. After I take the outside shots, I’m going to shoot them from the inside.”

“Well, have fun.”

“I always do.” Lori noticed that Christine was carrying a shopping bag labeled Snacks of Glory.

Christine Stanton was the “she” bringing the food to the meeting.

Lori watched Christine walk toward the church and forced herself not to look at the remote sound monitor on the tripod. Instead she made a show of rummaging in her camera case among her various lenses and filters. She could hear walking and shuffling sounds in her earpiece, but no voices. What were Daniel and George doing? she wondered.

“Hey! What are you guys doing next to the window?” Christine’s voice boomed through the earpiece. “Don’t tell me! You’re watching our pretty new visitor take pictures. Since when did you two become dirty old men?” She began to laugh.

“She’s certainly worth looking at,” George said.

“Uh-huh,” Christine said. “I promise that I won’t tell Margo what you said or recount the excitement in your voice when you said it.”

“Ah…she told us that she’s from Chicago and staying at the Captain,” Daniel said. “Do you know anything else…uh, interesting about her?”

“Wow, padre! She got to you, too.”

Lori resisted a powerful urge to look at Daniel Hartman’s window. Was he still staring at her?

Christine kept talking. “Well, I know that Lori Dorsett was recently divorced and that she probably took a bundle of money from her ex, because she has enough fancy photographic equipment to open a shop. She claims that she wants to be a travel photographer. I’ve no idea why she started with Glory as a subject, but she’s been taking pictures all over town. I haven’t seen any, so I don’t know if she’s any good. Maybe I’ll have an opportunity to see her work later.”

“Not a chance!” Lori muttered. She had a story ready to respond to any requests to look at her photos. Sorry, but I never let anyone see my raw digital photographs. I’ll be delighted to show you the final results after I’ve had a chance to edit and crop them.

“Your instincts are good,” Daniel said. “What do you think about her?”

“I think she’s a trophy wife who’s coming out of a bad marriage and is trying her best to start fresh. She’s a little ditzy, but that’s not her fault.”

Lori ignored a sudden pang of unease. She never felt comfortable when people bought her lies “hook, line and sinker,” like Kevin—a committed fisherman—loved to say. It seemed too easy to lie to good people—they trusted you, assumed you were telling the truth.

Well, Lori Dorsett was one of the “good guys,” too. Her investigation would ensure that justice was done in the upcoming lawsuit. All eyes were focused on McKinley Investments—but no one thought about the insurance company that stood behind the firm. If McKinley Investments were forced to pay damages to Glory Community Church, the money would come from the Chicago Financial Insurance Company. As one of three investigators in the Loss Control Office, Lori had the job of making sure that the claims were legitimate.

Why are ordinary folks so willing to cheat insurance companies?

It was a question that Lori had often asked herself during her three years on the job. In assignment after assignment, she’d seen “honest people” file false claims. Every new investigation made her more skeptical, more willing to be suspicious of everyone involved in the case.

Mistrust is an occupational hazard for someone with your abilities.

Lori took pride in her surveillance and investigatory skills. She had acquired them during a twelve-year stint as a special agent in the U.S. Army’s Criminal Investigation Division. The formal photograph of her in a dressblue warrant officer’s uniform looked just as soldierly as the picture of Colonel Daniel Hartman that currently resided in her computer.

Too bad he’ll never get to see the photos side by side.

Lori’s earpiece blared once more. “Who ordered the egg salad on rye?” Christine asked.

“That would be me,” George said.

“Then you must be the pork barbecue on a roll, with all the trimmings.”

“Guilty as charged, Counselor,” Daniel said.

Lori heard a stream of crumpled-paper sounds—followed by a series of chomping noises—that made her feel hungry once again.

“We might as well get started,” Daniel said. “Does anyone have anything new to report?”

“Well…” Christine replied. “First, I can report that I’m making good progress learning about securities law. I’m researching as fast as I can—this isn’t the kind of law I’ve practiced before.”

Lori sniggered. “That’s nice to know.”

Christine went on. “Second, I’ve verified that Quentin Fisher had a great reputation. I haven’t found a hint of other deceptive business practices anywhere in his long career. There are no other complaints against him. I wonder why he chose the church to begin his crooked practices?”

Lori murmured, “Now, that’s an excellent question.”

“I assume we’ll learn why as our lawsuit progresses,” Daniel said, “which brings us to the main item on our agenda—the lawsuit itself.”

“Quentin Fisher,” Christine said, “had a duty under the law to recommend suitable investments to the church. He breached that responsibility when he sold us excessively risky corporate bonds. We planned to spend the money within a year or so—we needed good, safe, shortterm investments.”

Lori retrieved a tablet computer from her camera case and began to jot down notes about what Christine said should some of it be useful later.

Christine continued. “The church signed a brokerage agreement with McKinley Investments that says all disputes between the parties will be settled through binding arbitration by a panel of arbitrators rather than a courtroom trial. The upside of arbitration is that it takes months instead of years. The downside is that we can’t appeal a decision that goes against us. However, the great majority of advisor lawsuits are settled before arbitration begins. That’s our goal.”

“And ours, too, honey,” Lori muttered. She adjusted her earpiece, which had slipped out of the center of her ear.

THREE

Daniel Hartman hated prisons. During his years as an Army chaplain, he had visited prisoners in dozens of Army stockades. His trip to see Tony Taylor in the Albemarle District Jail, in Elizabeth City, took him to his first civilian lockup, but he knew exactly what to expect: the clank of steel doors, the embarrassment he felt as he passed through the metal detectors, the harsh lighting in the green-painted meeting room that would give him a headache, the smell of sweat that seemed to permeate the air, the hint of disinfectant and the oppressive atmosphere that he knew would stay with him long after his return to Glory.

Daniel put up with it all because Tony had changed his mind and requested his visit. At first, Tony had wanted no one but his lawyer to “see him caged up,” as he put it. But yesterday, surprisingly, he had sent a message via his lawyer: “Please visit ASAP. I need your help.”

Daniel had mentally prepared himself by praying for thirty minutes in his office and again during the drive along State Route 34A. But he was still surprised by Tony’s appearance. Daniel felt a wrench of anguish to see Tony, who usually wore fancy vests and cashmere sweaters, dressed in a prison jumpsuit. The big man, a retired naval officer, seemed to have diminished in size. Worst of all, his expression seemed beaten down and more than a bit hopeless.

“Hello, Tony,” Daniel said. They were required to sit on opposite sides of a small metal table. “No handshakes,” the correction officer had said. “No contact.” The officer had left them alone, but he was watching through a glass panel in the door.

“Thanks for coming,” Tony said. “You don’t have to sugarcoat your words—I know I look like an abandoned shipwreck.”

Daniel decided to go along with Tony’s wishes. “I’d ask how you’re doing, but your appearance speaks volumes. You look like you aren’t sleeping well.”

Tony’s shoulders sagged. “I mostly lie awake at night thinking about the Glory at Sea Marina. The work’s got to be piling up. I can’t expect my wife to do it for me. Rebecca puts in backbreaking hours at the hospital.” He shook his head. “If I don’t get out of here soon, I’ll lose my business.”

Tony slapped his palm against the tabletop. The noise reverberated through the small room. “I shouldn’t be here. I didn’t kill Quentin Fisher. I had nothing to do with the accident at the marina.”

Daniel nodded, not sure what to say.

“Ask yourself this, Reverend. Why would I want to kill Fisher? He hadn’t succeeded in cheating me. All I cared about was getting the church’s money back. For that, I needed him alive, not dead.” He held up a finger. “But…if I had wanted to kill the skunk, why would I choose a method that put my whole marina at risk? The explosion could have easily started a fire that engulfed all of the docks.” He held up a second finger. “And another thing—I’m not stupid. Why kill Fisher in a way that calls attention to me?”

Daniel nodded again. Everyone in Glory had theories about the “accident,” as Tony called it. The facts, such as they were, had been widely reported in the Glory Gazette and on local TV stations.

Three weeks earlier, Tony’s personal boat—an elegant 23-foot-long classic wooden runabout named Marzipan—had exploded at Tony’s marina. There wasn’t any uncertainty about the explosion itself. Gasoline vapors had collected in the bilges and inside the boat because of a leaking fuel line. A random spark had ignited the vapors and triggered the explosion. The real mystery, however, centered on why Quentin Fisher had been sitting in Marzipan’s cockpit when the small boat was consumed by a fireball that shot more than fifty feet into the air.

Quentin Fisher had become Tony’s financial adviser a few weeks prior. All their dealings had been over the telephone or in the conference room in the McKinley Investments office in Greenville.

Quentin had no reason of his own to travel to the Glory at Sea Marina on the day of the explosion. He was there because Tony had sent him an e-mail inviting him to the marina. The police had subpoenaed Tony’s Internet records and had found a copy of the e-mail in the “Sent Messages” directory on Tony’s computer.

Tony interrupted Daniel’s musing. “I can see the wheels in your head turning, but none of the so-called evidence that I killed Fisher is right. I didn’t send him that e-mail. It was sent on the Thursday afternoon before the accident—but that’s when I was out in Albemarle Sound testing the rebuilt engine in a big motor cruiser.” Tony added, “And I certainly didn’t send him a faxed map of the marina.”

Daniel didn’t see the point of arguing with Tony, but what could explain away the evidence that the police had? The marina’s telephone records showed that—also on the previous Thursday afternoon—a one-page fax had been sent from Tony’s fax machine to Quentin’s fax machine. Moreover, an employee at the boatyard saw Quentin Fisher walking on the docks a few minutes before the explosion. Quentin approached him and asked for help finding a boat named Marzipan. The employee noted that Fisher’d had in his possession a faxed diagram of the marina’s docks.

Tony rested both hands flat on the tabletop. “And let me tell you the most relevant fact of all. Marzipan was worth a fortune. She was my pride and joy: I’d rebuilt her personally. Who in his right mind would destroy a genuine antique to kill a slime ball like Quentin Fisher?”

Daniel nodded once more. Everything Tony said made sense, but then, each of the prisoners he’d visited over the years could spout a dozen good reasons that proved his innocence. Most of them would conveniently ignore an especially strong fact or two. Tony hadn’t mentioned the garage-door transmitter.

When arson investigators from the Glory fire department—supplemented by two evidence technicians from the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation—sifted through the debris, they found a radio-controlled detonator in the remains of Marzipan’s bilge. The detonator had been built using a garage door remote-control system. The police, acting under a search warrant, rummaged through Tony’s office at the marina. They found a matching garage-door transmitter tucked behind a row of books on his bookshelf.

Daniel found it difficult to look Tony squarely in the eye. He didn’t want to believe that his friend was guilty of murder, but the evidence seemed…well, “overwhelming” was the word that Rafe Neilson had used. Daniel had had a heart-to-heart talk with Rafe, who had been remarkably forthcoming.

“I wish it wasn’t so,” Rafe had said, “but all the evidence points to a simple fact. Tony Taylor turned Marzipan into a bomb that killed Quentin Fisher.”

Daniel had countered, “For what purpose? What was Tony’s motive for killing Quentin?”

Rafe had thrown both hands up. “The obvious one, of course. Tony figured out that Quentin Fisher was cheating the church. We found a letter to Fisher outlining his alleged fraud in Tony’s computer. The letter demanded that McKinley Investments return the church’s money.”

Daniel had pressed. “Okay, but why kill him?”

“Because Fisher refused to return the money,” Rafe had said. “We figure that Tony decided to kill Fisher in the hope that his ‘accidental death’ would clear the way for McKinley Investments to take a fresh look at the church’s failed investment.”

Daniel had chosen not to argue with Rafe. After all, what could he offer as an alternative theory? But Rafe’s reasoning as to Tony’s motive seemed awfully weak. Would he really kill Quentin Fisher as part of a revenge-driven scheme to get the church’s money back? That didn’t seem anything like the Tony Taylor he knew.

Now, as Daniel observed Tony’s distress in jail, he wished he had at least challenged some of Rafe’s assumptions. He should have pressed Rafe, made him explain more.

“I’m curious…” Daniel said. “What led you to Quentin Fisher in the first place?”

Tony shrugged leisurely. “I guess I foolishly assumed that George Ingles knew what he was doing.” He let his head roll backward, then forward. “Look, Rebecca’s uncle died six months ago and she received a cash bequest of about a hundred and fifty thousand dollars. We were looking for an aggressive investment—something a bit riskier than usual that would have high returns. I asked George for his advice. He referred me to Quentin Fisher. I admit I was very impressed that he worked for McKinley Investments.”

“And he asked you to send him a check?”

“Not quite. At first he didn’t want to talk to me. He said that he handled major accounts and he offered to turn me over to one of the more junior investment advisers.”

“And?”

“I said fine. A few days later Fisher called me back and said that he’d be happy to take on my account.” Tony gave a mirthless laugh. “That’s when he asked me to send him a check.”

“And did you?”

“No. I dragged my feet. I wanted to see what kind of investment he would suggest before I made a commitment.” He grimaced. “I was astounded by what he came up with. Como Creative Media is a real dog. He tried to convince me that their corporate bonds would go up—I knew better.”

“But George Ingles didn’t?”

“I guess not.”

Daniel wanted to dig deeper, but decided not to. Any more questions about George would verge on gossip. Instead he asked, “So you never actually invested with Fisher?”

“Nope.” He paused. “When I realized that Quentin Fisher was a hack, I took a close look at the bonds that Fisher had sold the church and I confronted him about them.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone else at the church what you were doing?”

“Two reasons. I didn’t want to embarrass George, and I didn’t want to cause a panic among the congregation. I thought I’d be able to get the money back without making a big fuss.” He added, with a smile, “Feel free to use my story if you ever need a good example of foolish pride.”

Daniel returned the smile. When he was sure that Tony had nothing more to say, he asked, “How can I help you today, Tony? Besides praying for you, of course.”

“I need someone in my corner. Someone who cares enough to find out what really happened that day. The cops think I killed Quentin Fisher, so they’ve stopped investigating. I need someone who still has an open mind. I need you, Daniel.”

“Me?”

“My defense attorney recommended that I hire a private investigator, but it would take a month to bring him up to speed and a year to get folks in Glory to cooperate with him. Even then, he wouldn’t really care about me. I need you.”

Daniel thought about arguing with Tony—until he saw the determination in the man’s eyes. Tony would not take no for an answer.

“You’ve given me quite a challenge,” Daniel said. “Of course I’ll help in every way I can—including praying for you.”

Tony’s expression darkened for a moment but then he said, “You do that, Reverend. And while you’re praying, imagine what’s going to happen to me if you can’t help me prove my innocence. I’ll spend the rest of my life in a prison far grimmer than the Albemarle District Jail.”

Daniel shivered at the notion. There was indisputable fear behind Tony’s plea for help. And cold logic in his description of what could happen to him. For the first time in decades, Daniel began to wonder if prayer was enough.

Okay, Mizz Dorsett. It’s time to begin your scheming.

Lori slipped her camera case under her bed and retrieved her laptop computer, the smallest and thinnest portable available. She switched it on and opened a password-protected file that contained comprehensive dossiers of George Ingles, Christine Stanton and Daniel Hartman.

“A big hello to the Big Three,” she said. “Eeny, meeny, miney, mo. Which of you is best to know?”

Lori scrolled to the bottom of the document, then back to the top, stopping awhile to look at a large photograph of each “candidate.” One of them would soon be her weak link at Glory Community Church—the person who would, with gentle prodding, be encouraged to share information about the ongoing lawsuit.

She moved the cursor next to the photo of George Ingles and let herself smile. Her easiest target might well be flirty George, the fellow who started it all by making foolish investments. She’d probably learn a lot of delicious details from George—but would it be possible to befriend him?

The information that Kevin had gathered about Ingles was inconclusive. He held a bachelor’s degree in elementary education and a master’s of business administration. He had taken a job in what used to be called the personnel department at a small software company and eventually became vice president of Human Resources for a high-tech conglomerate.

Despite his blustery self-confidence, George might well turn out to be an all-talk-no-action type of man, the sort who panics if his flirting actually works.

Lori tapped the Page Down key, to a small photograph of a pinch-faced woman in her late fifties. To make matters worse, George was married. Margo Ingles had been his secretary for many years before they married, so she’d be achingly familiar with his coy antics. She probably kept George on a short leash and would work hard to terminate an unexpected relationship with a newly arrived woman more than twenty years younger than her husband.

Lori ran her finger along the computer’s touch pad and placed a red highlight atop George Ingles’s name. “Sorry, George,” she said. “We’ll never know how great our relationship might have been.”

Lori scrolled down the page to Christine Stanton’s photo and felt her smile fade into a frown. It would be hard work to sidle up to Christine. She was one of those women who wanted to believe the new divorcée in town was a pretty but brainless ditz. Lori remembered the puzzled look she’d received from Christine outside the church. It had spoken volumes.

“She was amused to see me taking pictures with a complex camera,” Lori murmured. “She undoubtedly assumed that I’d have endless problems figuring out how to work the dials and controls.”

On the other hand, maybe you’re being too hasty.

Lori brought the cursor atop the photo so that the “+” rested on Christine’s nose. Given the right circumstances, Christine might spill all of the beans to a “dumb but nice” friend. And as the church’s legal advocate, she would know everything worth knowing about Glory Community’s case…

No. She’s much too bright.

That was the chief downside of getting close to Christine. The dossier explained that Christine Eloise Stanton held a magna cum laude degree in political science from Smith College and had graduated with honors from University of Virginia Law School. These days, she might be toting guests’ luggage into the Scottish Captain, but that didn’t take away her savvy or her smarts. If anyone could figure out why Lori had come to Glory, it would be her. The risk of making friends with her was too high.

Lori turned Christine’s name red then touched Page Down to reach the one remaining candidate: Reverend Doctor Daniel Hartman, minister of word and sacrament, the pastor who had to deal with a nearly impossible mess. Daniel sat at the hub of Glory Community Church. He knew everyone involved with church finances and attended every meeting. He’d be more fun to be around than George and more forthcoming than Christine.

And the winner is, Daniel Hartman.

Lori studied his picture. Kevin had managed to find a lovely photograph of the pastor, although he really was so much better-looking in the flesh…

Knock it off, lady, you’re on duty.

Lori chuckled. There was certainly a lot to like about Daniel Hartman. Besides being unusually handsome, his various degrees from Dartmouth College, Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary and Erskine Seminary proved his intelligence. Equally important, he was charmingly polite and had an authentic knack for making people feel comfortable. Daniel had taken her put-down of Christianity in stride and seemed genuinely embarrassed by George Ingles’s clumsy come-on. It was a shame that she’d decided not to acknowledge his annoyance back then. Keeping George happy had been more important to her than impressing the pastor.

Lori centered Daniel’s picture on the screen. His eyes seemed filled with determination. She’d have to work extra hard to persuade him to share the information he had. Pastors tend to be close-mouthed, used to keeping secrets. Daniel looked even more resolute.

Lori wondered if she could also consider Emma Neilson—a B and B owner, recently married to the town’s deputy police chief, and Christine Stanton’s new boss. Lori quickly decided that she’d have to work too hard to become Emma’s fast friend. And once I did, she wouldn’t have much information about the case. Emma sang in the church choir, but that wouldn’t automatically give her access to what Chicago Financial Insurance needed to know.

“Nope. My best candidate is Daniel Hartman,” she murmured. “I can bypass some of his resolve with electronic surveillance gear.”

Lori felt herself smile at the thought. She would supplement her one-on-one contacts with Daniel by installing a bug at the church. A combination of investigatory techniques would make sure she got everything she needed. Better safe than sorry.

Her satellite phone began to ring. She retrieved it from her handbag and moved close to the window to give the antenna a better view of the sky.

“How we doing this afternoon, Mizz Dorsett,” Kevin asked, without any preamble.

“We’re doing peachy-keen. Why do you ask?”

“This is usually the time in every undercover assignment when you have a mild attack of scruples. I thought I’d nip it in the bud.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not having any second thoughts today. In fact, I’m making good process. I’ve just selected my Trojan Horse.”

“Let me guess—George Ingles.”

“Nope. Daniel Hartman, even though he’s not a sure thing.”

Kevin whistled softly. “The pastor! I’m impressed. And I’m also surprised. Isn’t hoodwinking a pastor considered a heavy-duty sin?”

“Very funny.”

“Okay. I’ll get serious. You tend to get close to the people you investigate. That’s what makes you a true undercover artist. But you also tend to take the sides of people you get to know. And that’s when you can become a pain to manage.”

Kevin’s voice became softer. “You like the town of Glory. You respect the people you’ve met. I could hear it in your voice earlier.” He seemed to hesitate. “You okay with all of this?”

“All of what?”

“If your investigation succeeds, the church won’t get its money back.”

“If I succeed, as you put it, it will mean that I’ve uncovered evidence that George Ingles made a rotten investment with his eyes wide open. That would mean that the church doesn’t deserve to get its money back.” She added. “And you’re right—I do respect the people I’ve met. They’re cheerful, direct and nice. I haven’t met any phonies yet.” Lori recalled George’s sleazy sweet talk. “Well, maybe I did meet one phony.” She added, “Anyway, I never take anyone’s side.”

Kevin snorted. “Speaking of rotten investments…we received another package of relevant documents from McKinley Investments. This stack of goodies includes the last monthly brokerage report that Quentin Fisher filed before he was killed. He claims that he urged the church not to buy junk bonds, but that the church’s financial secretary wanted to maximize return and was willing to accept a higher risk.”

“When did Fisher submit his last report?”

“The middle of April.”

“That seems rather late in the day. The church invested the money in February. Quentin Fisher counseled George Ingles in January.”

“I suppose he was finishing up his required paperwork—you know, dotting his i’s and crossing his t’s.”

“More likely, Quentin Fisher was covering his tail. He wanted to document that he lived up to his responsibility to give the church sound financial advice—even though he probably didn’t.”

“Hmm. Didn’t someone just tell me that Lori Dorsett never takes sides.”

“I don’t and I haven’t,” Lori said. “One needn’t play favorites to recognize that something’s wrong with Quentin Fisher’s story. It doesn’t ring true. We don’t have all the facts on him. We don’t know everything he did.”

“Maybe so, but Quentin Fisher’s not our problem. Our primary target is George Ingles.” Kevin grunted, a signal that the debate was over. “To change the subject, I hope you’re eating well. I’m concerned for two reasons. I need you to stay healthy and don’t want you to return to Chicago with a craving for chitlins and cornpone.”

“I’m eating very well, thank you. Since Chicago Financial Insurance is paying my expenses I intend to sample all of the best restaurants in Glory—the kind that have lobster and filet on the menu. In fact, it’s approaching my usual dinnertime and I’m feeling a bit hungry.”

“Bon appetit!” Kevin said with a laugh. “Let’s talk again tomorrow.”

“Whatever!” She pressed the disconnect button.

Lori turned off her computer and grabbed a lightweight jacket. Spring evenings could be cool in Glory. She ignored the stab of concern she felt as she left her room. There was a simple spring lock on her door, but every container in her room was unlocked: her suitcase, her camera case, her attaché case that held her computer and a folder full of travel brochures. This seeming indifference was in keeping with the laid-back persona she’d chosen. Christine Stanton would expect a “ditz” to behave that way. Better to risk a theft than raise unnecessary suspicions about herself. And besides, the odds of her room being burgled in a town like Glory were small.

As Lori walked toward the front door, she saw Christine sitting in the parlor, reading what looked like a thick law book.

“That’s definitely heavy reading,” Lori said.

Christine raised her eyes. “Out to take more pictures?”

Lori stepped into the parlor. “No. I’m in the mood for a short walk then a good meal.”

“Well, you can’t do much better than a stroll along the Glory Strand, down by the waterside. Turn left when you leave the Captain and take another left on Dock Street. Keep walking, you’ll end up at the start of the Strand.”

“Left, left and walk. Got it.”

“When you get to the end of Dock Street, look to your right and you’ll see the Glory at Sea Marina. There are a couple of fine seafood restaurants nearby. The Glorious Catch is big and fancy. The Fisherman’s Inn is small and cozy.”

“The Fisherman’s Inn sounds perfect. I’m kinda gloried-out.”

“Good choice. The Tuesday night special is usually homemade Maryland-style crab cakes.”

“Yum!”

Lori had taken several small steps into the parlor during the brief conversation, bringing her close enough to Christine to read the spine of book she held: Litigating Financial Fraud.

Lori nodded at Christine and backed out of the room. She would have to track down the book on the Internet and find out if it was a text for beginners or experts. That would be a useful bit of information to know. But it certainly could wait until after she ate her fill of crab cakes.

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