“I’m impressed by your courage,” Rafe said. “The B and B owners here in Glory put everything at risk-even silly pranks can threaten your future. I couldn’t handle the stress.”

“So you chose a low-stress career-police work,” Emma said.

“It’s a different kind of stress,” Rafe said with a smile. “Glory’s mystery prankster, for example-I wish we had more leads.”

Emma stopped, standing under a streetlight on Water Street. “Well,” she said, “there’s one lead we haven’t considered yet.”

To Rafe’s surprise, Emma’s “we” sounded perfectly appropriate.

“There’s some sort of deeper connection between the latest prank and my bed-and-breakfast,” she said.

RON AND JANET BENREY

Ron and Janet Benrey began writing romantic cozy mysteries together more than ten years ago—chiefly because they both loved to read them. Their successful collaboration surprised them both, because they have remarkably different backgrounds.

Ron holds degrees in engineering, management and law. He built a successful career as a nonfiction writer specializing in speechwriting and other aspects of business writing. Janet was an entrepreneur before she earned a degree in communications, working in fields such as professional photography, executive recruiting and sporting-goods marketing.

How do they write together and still stay married? That’s the question that readers ask most. The answer is that they’ve developed a process for writing novels that makes optimum use of their individual talents. Perhaps even more important, their love for cozy mysteries transcends the inevitable squabbles that occur when they’re writing.

Glory Be!
Ron and Janet Benrey

MILLS & BOON

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Rejoice in the Lord always.

I will say it again: Rejoice!

Let your gentleness be evident to all.

The Lord is near.

—Philippians 4:4–5

For Collette and Craig Crandall.

Welcome to Glory!

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

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

ONE

“What’s wrong with this picture?” Emma McCall muttered, as she plunged her hands into a mound of croissant dough. “It’s pitch-black outside and I’m up to my elbows in flour.”

Emma was the sole proprietor of The Scottish Captain, a bed-and-breakfast in Glory, North Carolina. Some days, though, the Captain seemed to own her. Today was a perfect example. She had risen at 4:00 a.m. because Calvin Constable, her breakfast chef, had taken a well-earned day off. That left Emma on her own to prepare this morning’s breakfast, until Peggy Lyons, her housekeeper, arrived at six.

Emma glanced at the wall clock in the kitchen. Ten to six. If Peggy came on time—and if nothing went wrong—they would finish with ten minutes to spare. Just enough time to strip off her scruffy T-shirt and faded blue jeans and slip into one of her chic hostess outfits. Today she might go for the tailored suit in a shade of tan that went well with her dark brown hair.

The Captain had six guest rooms and could accommodate a maximum of eighteen guests in a pinch, although off-season bookings rarely exceeded half a dozen. On this, the first Wednesday in November, Emma had to prepare breakfast for five people.

The centerpiece dish would be Eggs Sardou, a classic New Orleans concoction of poached eggs served on artichokes with spinach and hollandaise sauce. She would also offer a selection of imported bacon and sausages, hot croissants, fresh-squeezed orange juice and her “signature” gingered fruit compote. And, of course, coffee and brewed tea.

Emma had decided to serve an elaborate breakfast because three of her guests were New England travel writers, part of a contingent on a pre-winter junket through North Carolina. Their favorable recommendations might bring flocks of northern “snowbirds” to The Scottish Captain as they traveled south. The other two guests—a couple who hailed from Maryland—also had influence. He was a prominent Washington attorney, she an evening news anchor on a Baltimore TV station.

Emma had just begun to shape croissants on a large buttered pan when Peggy Lyons burst into the kitchen and shouted, “There’s a bug on the porch.”

Emma willed herself not to scream at Peggy. She had seen this same panic-stricken look on her housekeeper’s face many times before. Peggy was a fine worker but easily flustered by minor problems. Emma unstuck her fingers from the slick, buttery dough.

“Tromp on the bug, Peggy,” she said, evenly. “Whap it with a newspaper, spray it with insecticide, or catch it in ajar. Pick one of the above, but do it quickly. I need your help.”

“You don’t understand, Emma. There’s a Bug on the porch. A car! A silver Volkswagen Beetle convertible.”

Rafe Neilson fumbled for his cell phone in the dark. He knew without looking at the glowing Caller ID display that Angie Ringgold needed his advice. Angie—a newcomer to the department—was the only police officer on duty in Glory, North Carolina, that morning.

“Good morning, Angie,” he said sleepily.

“I’m sorry to call so early, Rafe, but someone pulled a weird prank on Broad Street. There’s a Volkswagen Beetle sitting on The Scottish Captain’s front porch.”

“A prank?” He cleared his throat. “When did it become a police matter?”

“The Captain’s owner dialed 911. She wants the responsible party arrested and I don’t know what to tell her. Is moving a car to a porch a crime? And, if so, what kind of crime? The curriculum at the Police Academy stopped short of practical jokes.”

Rafe peered at his clock—6:20 a.m. “Do you know who did the deed?”

“Sort of—but not exactly.”

“What does ‘sort of’ mean?”

“There was a note tucked under the windshield wiper. I’ll read it to you. ‘Dear Emma. Your lack of support for enhancing the contemporary service really bugs us. Please reconsider your position.’ The note is signed ‘The Phantom Avenger.’”

Rafe thought about the message for a moment then groaned softly.

“See what I mean?” Angie said. “Sort of—but not exactly.”

“I’ll be there in three minutes.”

Rafe slipped into his khaki trousers, tugged on a warm sweatshirt and grabbed his nylon windbreaker. He’d worry about his police uniform later.

Outside, he fired up his Corvette—taking a moment to enjoy its throaty exhaust growl. Rafe’s ’Vette was a 1978 model, candy-apple-red, a classic that he had lovingly restored and now kept in perfect operating condition.

Rafe’s house on Front Street was five blocks from The Scottish Captain. He kept the ’Vette in second gear for the short drive. He parked across the street and took a moment to contemplate the front of the Captain in the flattering light of an unclouded sunrise.

Rafe chuckled to himself. The silver new Beetle looked at home up on the porch; passersby on Broad Street might well conclude that the bed-and-breakfast was also an eccentric automobile dealership.

The Captain was a large, three story clapboard structure, with a deep front lawn and a charming antique brick walkway. Every tourist guide to Glory explained that the old pile was considered one of the town’s historical buildings. It had been built toward the end of the nineteenth century as an elegant residence for affluent single women. It was a good-looking house, with large windows, double front doors made of oak and a front porch served by a flight of five deep steps nearly twenty feet wide. The porch could hold a dozen chairs and sliders; it was the perfect sort of porch to cradle a compact convertible.

Rafe knew that the Captain had been a bed-and-breakfast since 1982. Before that, the building had served as Glory’s cheapest rooming house, catering mostly to retired pensioners. Rafe recalled that Emma McCall, the current owner, had bought the Captain from Carole and Duncan Frasier, a pair of expatriate New Englanders. The Frasiers had picked up the aging residence for a song in 1981, renovated it into a B and B, and chose the name “The Scottish Captain” on the theory that it communicated three virtues: thrift, competence and a touch of wanderlust.

Rafe had toured the Captain two Christmases ago during an “open house afternoon” to raise money for the Glory Regional Hospital. He remembered that the first floor had both front and rear parlors, a dining room that had become the B and B’s breakfast room, a kitchen and an ornate staircase that began in a high-ceilinged entrance foyer. There were six bedrooms of equal size on the second floor—three on each side of the hallway, each equipped with an en suite bathroom, not a common feature in the nineteenth century.

The tour didn’t include the top story, but the docent explained that the third floor was a self-contained apartment—the owner’s residence—accessible by a private staircase.

Rafe found Angie in her cruiser, writing in a notebook.

“Hi, Angie. Any progress?”

She nodded. “I’ve tentatively labeled the offense a ‘Trespass.’ Does that sound right to you?”

“Only if we want to consider a prank as a crime.”

“The B and B owner is furious. As I told you, she wants to file a formal complaint.”

“A natural first reaction. I’ll try to change her mind.”

Angie looked up from her writing. “That’s right—you know Emma McCall.”

Rafe grinned. “Sort of, but not exactly.” He went on, “Where is she?”

“Working in the kitchen, at the rear of the building. That’s why she didn’t see or hear the Beetle lifted onto the porch.”

“Do we know when it happened?”

“Well, I drove down Broad Street a few minutes after five and the car wasn’t on the porch then.”

“I’d better chat with the lady.”

Rafe slapped the empty pockets of his windbreaker then offered an embarrassed smile. “I forgot my notebook. Can I borrow yours?”

“Sure. You can even keep my notes—if you promise to write up the official incident report.”

“Consider it done. Can you also lend me a pen?”

“You need a wife to keep you organized,” Angie said wryly.

“I’ll take it under advisement.”

Rafe walked along a narrow flagstone path to reach the back of The Scottish Captain. The top panes of the kitchen windows were open; the bottom were shuttered. He couldn’t see inside, but whatever Emma McCall was cooking smelled wonderful.

He stopped to read Angie’s notes.

Time of arrival on scene: 6:03 a.m.; Complainant: Emma McCall; female; Age: 37; Address: 18 Broad Street, Glory; Marital status: divorced; Hair: dark brown; Eyes: brown; Height: approx 5’9”; Occupation: innkeeper; Demeanor: angry; Weather: partly cloudy, cold; Nature of “trespass”: vehicle moved from parking lot to porch of bed-and-breakfast; Estimated time of “trespass”: between 5 and 6:00 a.m.; no apparent damage to B and B; no apparent damage to vehicle; Vehicle details: 2006 Volkswagen New Beetle convertible, silver, tan leather upholstery; Maryland registration: AM70RG3; Vehicle registered to Noelle R. Laurence, Catonsville, MD; Vehicle not listed in National Crime Computer System—presumably not stolen.

Rafe felt like laughing at the meticulous detail. Rookie cops followed procedure to the letter and wrote everything down.

One fact surprised him. He had guessed that Emma—tall, graceful, good looking—was in her early thirties. Because she was also a member of the Glory Community Church Choir, he stood a few feet away from her on most Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings. She seemed an odd duck, a loner who relished her privacy. He had exchanged a few pleasantries with her, but they had never shared a real conversation.

The little he knew about Emma he’d picked up in brief conversations with other choir members. She’d moved to Glory about a year earlier from Seattle, Washington. Apparently, she’d held an important job at a fancy hotel in Seattle but then decided she’d rather run her own B and B.

Rafe knocked on the Captain’s back door.

“Who’s there?” asked a voice deep inside the kitchen.

“Rafe Neilson.”

A hesitation. “Rafe Neilson from the choir?”

“The same—but today I’m Rafe Neilson from the police.”

Another hesitation. “Hang on.”

Emma’s face appeared at the window in the door. She peered at him for a moment then opened the door halfway.

“I didn’t know you were a policeman.”

“My identification card is at home with my badge and my wallet. You’ll have to accept my word that I’m the deputy chief.”

She opened the door fully. He stepped inside the kitchen.

“Let’s say I believe you,” she said. “Now what?”

“I need to talk with you about the report you made to Officer Ringgold.”

She shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t spare a moment right now. My guests expect to be served breakfast beginning at seven-thirty. It’s twenty to seven and my housekeeper is setting up the dining room, which means that I have forty minutes to finish ten chores and change my clothes. Come back in two hours.”

Rafe felt a twinge of sympathy for Emma. She was liberally dusted in flour that had settled beyond the borders of the large chef’s apron she wore. She looked as frazzled as she sounded.

“What if I help you prepare breakfast?” he said. “We can talk while we work together.”

“Do you know the difference between boysenberry conserve and boysenberry preserves?”

“I have to admit that I don’t.”

“Then come back in two hours. I don’t let amateurs work in my kitchen.”

Before Rafe could respond, the cell phone clipped to Emma’s belt beeped.

“It’s about time he returned my call,” she murmured angrily as she flipped the phone open. “This is Emma.”

Rafe listened intently to her half of the conversation. She didn’t seem to object.

“Good morning, Mr. Yeager. Thanks for getting back to me so quickly….

“Yes, Peggy Lyons explained that she’s your niece….

“I agree—she’s a doll….

“That’s precisely what I said to the police—not all practical jokes are funny….

“No—it weighs less than that. I looked up the weight of the Beetle on the Internet. The convertible is about three thousand pounds. Your whole team working together should have no problem….

“Uh-huh…That’s why I contacted you. Peggy tells me that you coach twenty-five of the strongest young men in the county….

“Sure! The deal I propose is simple. I want that car off my porch as soon as possible. If your men help me this morning, I’ll donate two couples’ getaway weekends at the Captain that you can auction off to raise money for the team….

“Three weekends?

“I understand—it’s a worthy cause. But three weekends represents an enormous sum….

“Very well—three weekends….

“We’ll be ready when you are….

“Fine. I’ll expect you in twenty minutes!”

Rafe swallowed a grin. Tom Yeager was a tough man to best in a bargain. Emma hooked the phone on her belt; she made no effort to hide her annoyance. “Do I have to explain the expensive negotiation you just overheard?” she asked.

“You rented our high school football team at a cost of three complimentary weekends.”

“Whoever pulled this stunt cost me a small fortune. I’d sure love to see the perpetrators in handcuffs by the end of the day.”

“You just hired the…ah…perpetrators to move the car off the porch.”

“I what?”

“This is a small town. We don’t have multiple collections of guys who are strong enough—and foolish enough—to tote a Volkswagen around.”

“Rats! Why didn’t I think of that before I made the deal?”

“The Glory Gremlins start football practice at 6:00 a.m. on Wednesday mornings. If some of them were inclined to move a car…”

“The team could do it on the way to the high school.” Emma looked at Rafe with a confused frown. “But why me? I’ve never done anything to them.”

“You read the note. Several of those kids are members of Glory Community Church.”

“I read it, but it made no sense. I have absolutely nothing to do with the contemporary service at church.”

Rafe tried not to show the astonishment he felt. Did Emma live in an isolation bubble? Her very lack of involvement with the contemporary service made her a target. Emma had been a member of the church for nearly a year. How could she be so oblivious to the ongoing turmoil at Glory Community?

A toilet flushed somewhere overhead. Emma jumped. “Oh, boy! My guests are getting up. I have to finish breakfast. Get out of my kitchen. Now!”

Rafe chose not to argue. He left without further comment and retraced the flagstone path to the front of the Captain, where a tall, big-bellied man in a blue, hooded sweatshirt was standing on the front lawn gazing up at the silver Beetle. His carefully trimmed gray beard made a perfect frame for the delighted smile on his face. As Rafe approached, the man said, “Tradition is a beautiful thing. I helped pull the same stunt forty years ago at the University of Maine. Of course, Volkswagen cars were smaller back then. We needed only a dozen seniors to carry a black Beetle to the chancellor’s terrace. He…was…frosted!”

“Are you a guest at The Scottish Captain?” Rafe asked.

The man nodded. “The North Carolina Department of Tourism is shuttling a dozen travel writers around the state. Three of us are at the Captain, but I’m the only early riser. I was going for a prebreakfast walk around Glory, but a levitated Volkswagen seems so much more interesting. I wonder if we’re witnessing the start of a new trend—the rediscovery of a decades-old practical joke?”

“Did you happen to see who did it?”

The man’s smile didn’t waver. “Elves. A giant flock of wee Scottish elves. Or possibly wood sprites. It’s so hard to tell the difference—Officer.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“The black notebook clutched in your hand gave you away. I used to cover the rural police beat for the Daily Herald in Portland, Maine. Small-town cops look alike.”

Rafe returned to his Corvette to warm up. He was in a perfect position to observe the festivities fifteen minutes later.

The Glory Gremlins marched five abreast down the center of Broad Street in their gold-and-white practice uniforms, proudly led by the coaching staff.

To Rafe’s surprise, Emma McCall and Peggy Lyons met the arriving team on the porch with two large trays of steaming paper cups. He guessed they were filled with hot chocolate. Apparently, Emma’s earlier anger at the team had not overpowered her spirit of hospitality.

The football players downed the drinks and took up positions on either side of the Beetle.

Coach Yeager, serving both as cheerleader and lift master, shouted directions with many flourishes of his arms.

The Beetle rose and, like a glistening apparition, glided down the Captain’s front steps, traversed the lawn and moved toward the small parking lot on the left side of the bed-and-breakfast. Emma McCall followed a few steps behind, arms crossed, jaw jutting. She now wore a dressy skirt and jacket that made Rafe think of a flight attendant’s uniform. She looked cold and unhappy.

The silver car settled gently into a parking space, amidst a barrage of shouts and applause loud enough to wake every late sleeper on Broad Street.

Through it all, three enthusiastic picture-takers zigged and zagged around the young men. Rafe recognized one as Troy Huff, a local freelance photographer who often worked for the Glory Gazette. The second was the travel writer in the blue sweatshirt. The third was a striking blonde in a full-length shearling coat who brandished a palm-sized video camera. He guessed she was Noelle Laurence, the owner of the Volkswagen. The wide grin on her face signaled that she was having a grand old time. No way would she insist that someone be arrested.

What’s left to talk about with Emma McCall?

Rafe decided to forgo his chat with the Captain’s owner. Maybe she’d forget about filing a formal complaint. If not, she could come to police headquarters and cool her heels awhile outside his office.

Rafe started his Corvette and shifted to first gear. “In any case,” he said to the steering wheel, “I’ll see her this evening at choir practice.”

He let out the clutch, wondering if he should tell Emma that the flour-spotted T-shirt she wore while cooking was actually more becoming than her mud-colored suit.

TWO

The silence pouring through the curtained windows of his study surprised Reverend Daniel Hartman. Anyone within two blocks of Glory Community Church on a Wednesday evening inevitably heard the choir practicing—and the manse was scarcely a hundred feet away. He rolled his swivel chair across the parquet floor to the window that overlooked the church. The lights were on in the choir practice room and he could see shadows of people moving inside. But where was Lily Kirk’s piercing soprano voice? Or Tony Taylor’s booming baritone? Daniel hadn’t heard either for at least five minutes.

He glanced at his wristwatch. Ten minutes past seven.

Much too early for the choir to take a break. Nina McEwen always demanded a solid half hour of practice between seven and seven-thirty. Nina was a tough taskmaster and a woman of unwavering habits: she enforced rules as if they were divine commandments.

“Something’s not kosher,” Daniel murmured as he saved the half-completed draft of the sermon he was writing and switched his laptop to “sleep” mode.

Daniel knew, of course, that giving in to his curiosity was nothing but a convenient excuse for procrastination—but even a feeble pretext was better than none. For some reason, his message on John, Chapter eight was not “clicking.” Better to set it aside until he felt moved by authentic inspiration. Perhaps the Holy Spirit preferred a different text on Sunday.

You were going to stop sermonizing soon, anyway.

The Reverend Doctor Daniel Hartman, Minister of Word and Sacrament, had a standing appointment with Nina McEwen, Doctor of Fine Arts, Glory Community’s Choral Director. They met every Wednesday, immediately after choir practice, to select the hymns that would be sung a week from the coming Sunday.

Nina preferred that Daniel not attend the actual rehearsal itself. “I need to be top dog in the room when we practice,” Nina once explained. “The choir has to know that my word is their law.”

Daniel had spent more than twenty years as a U.S. Army chaplain and understood the principle of “chain of command.” If Nina felt that the pastor’s presence might undercut the authority the choirmaster needed—well, he would schedule his arrival after the last Amen was sung.

He peered again at the choir practice room window. Had that happened yet tonight?

There’s only one way to find out.

A plump raindrop thumped against the windshield just as Emma drove her Volvo station wagon past the brightly lit sign at the start of Main Street that proclaimed in six-inch-high, gold-and-red letters: Welcome To Glory, North Carolina. We’re Happy You’re Here!

“Not half as happy as I am,” Emma muttered tiredly.

A routine ninety-minute drive from Portsmouth, Virginia, had become a two-and-a-half-hour creep through lashing rain, with the windshield wipers on the Volvo straining on high for much of the trip. Now the on-again, off-again rainstorm looked ready to start up again during the evening.

The traffic light at the corner of Main Street and King turned red. Emma wished that she had visited the advertising agency that morning, as planned, rather than letting it slip to the afternoon.

That stupid prank upset my day.

Breakfast at the Captain had turned into a festive celebration, with Noelle Laurence, the Baltimore newscaster who happened to own the Beetle, arranging impromptu interviews with Emma and Coach Yeager.

“I hope my homemade videotape is usable,” she said. “I’d love to run this story on the Five O’Clock News.”

Emma couldn’t imagine why anyone in Baltimore would care about a Volkswagen on her porch. She was even a bit surprised when Rex Grainger, the editor of the Glory Gazette, called to verify the name of the car’s owner. Friday’s issue, he promised, would include a hard-hitting exposé entitled “The Beetle Battle: Glory Gremlins 1, Vandals 0.”

He wasted ten valuable minutes commiserating with me about my wasted morning.

Everything Emma had done that day took longer than usual. Cleaning up after breakfast, checking guests out, confirming reservations, helping Peggy Lyons prepare the bedrooms—they all dragged on past their allotted times. Emma finally left for Portsmouth at one o’clock and spent longer than she meant to chatting with Todd Harris at the agency.

You should have declined that last cup of coffee, Emma thought, guiltily.

Giving in had seemed the friendly thing to do. Todd was in a chatty mood as he presented the new designs for her brochures, Web site and menu covers. He wanted to talk about strategies for marketing The Scottish Captain to vacationers from Great Britain. He suggested another cup of coffee, and Emma forgot about the threatening sky and her intention to go to choir practice that evening.

Glory Community Church had a fine, but small, choir. As Nina McEwen, the choral director, often said, “With only seventeen singers, every voice counts.” Emma tried her best not to miss church services or practice sessions.

The traffic light turned green; Emma turned left onto King Street. It was now raining quite heavily. She looked at the dashboard clock. Ten after seven.

I’ll only be a little late.

There was no other traffic in sight as she drove three blocks north then made a right turn into Glory Community’s parking lot.

She stepped out of the dark red Volvo and almost collided with Reverend Daniel Hartman.

“Good evening, Emma,” he said, as he pirouetted out of her path.

“Oh! I didn’t see you.”

“Let’s get out of the rain.” He tugged open the back door.

Emma walked into a cacophony of heated words. The raised voices filling the corridor were angry—and easy for her to recognize.

“Nonsense!” Lily Kirk bellowed. “Your bad behavior has nothing to do with worship. The young people in this church are ungrateful whelps, with no appreciation for tradition.”

“Nobody says ‘whelp’ anymore,” Debbie shouted back. “You talk like you think—out of date.”

“Oh, my!” Daniel said. “Our star sopranos are dueling.” He scooted around Emma and plunged into the practice room. She halted in the doorway and watched the fracas unfold.

Lily and Debbie stood on opposite sides of Nina, who kept whacking her music stand with her conductor’s baton.

“Where is the respect that my generation showed its elders?” Lily ranted. “We never would have stooped to committing spiteful practical jokes. Imagine tormenting a defenseless fish!”

“If you want respect from me, earn it!” Debbie returned heatedly. “And for your information, we don’t do practical jokes. Because you have the media on your side, we’ve been forced to launch a campaign of harmless civil disobedience to get our position better known. The fish, by the way, seemed happier in his new home.”

Nina whacked harder, flinging specks of white paint in all directions.

Reverend Hartman tried to intervene. “Please, ladies! Please! This is neither the time nor place to argue about church business.”

The sixtyish Lily, who had once sung on Broadway, ignored both pastor and director and upped the stakes. She spread her arms wide and belted out, “Spiteful! Spiteful! Spiteful!” Each crystal-clear word pitched higher than the one before.

Debbie, a seventeen-year-old high school student, couldn’t match Lily’s colossal volume, but she did manage to hit an even more shrill high note when she sang, “Out of date! Out of date! Out of date!”

Nina smashed her baton against the music stand in a mighty final whack that sent the baton’s red tip flying over Emma’s head and out the door.

“Nooo!” Nina shrieked. She flung her broken symbol of musical authority against the back wall. “This is intolerable. Fifteen-minute break!”

Emma stepped aside. Nina—hands trembling, tears in her eyes—ran past her and made for the ladies’ room.

“Now see what you’ve done?” Lily leveled an accusing finger at Debbie, who seemed, Emma thought, to be genuinely dismayed by Nina’s abrupt departure.

Before Debbie could reply, Tony Taylor, the choir’s lead baritone, a retired naval officer who owned the Glory at Sea marina, entered the fray. “That’s not fair, Lily! This is your doing. You started the ruckus by baiting Debbie—she merely defended herself.”

Lily held her ground. “Of course you would take the girl’s side. You also sing at the contemporary service.” She hissed the word contemporary as if it was obscene.

“I agree with Lily!” said Lane Johnson, the choir’s lead tenor and Glory’s postmaster. He threw back his broad shoulders and glared at Tony. “You’ve never liked the traditional hymns—probably because you sing a weak baritone.”

“Who asked for your dumb opinion?” Tony growled at Lane.

“Who made you king of the choir?” Lane barked back.

Emma wasn’t sure whether Tony or Lane landed the first push, but a moment later the pair was wrestling on the floor, surrounded by fallen music stands and hymnals.

Rafe Neilson, who had been standing in the back row with Sam Lange, the choir’s other baritone, raced forward to pull Tony and Lane apart, while Jacqueline Naismith, a retired schoolteacher who sang alto, used her considerable bulk to shield a small, vulnerable table that held several pitchers of iced tea and a tray of cookies. The other members of the choir watched the spectacle with grim determination. Emma noted that some of them were actually enjoying the brawl.

BWANG!

The raucous noise made Emma spin around. She saw Daniel Hartman standing next to the piano and realized that he had slammed both hands down on the keyboard to end the fight. Rafe yanked Tony to his feet in one powerful heave and then reached back down for Lane.

“We will have an interlude of prayer!” Daniel roared, in a commanding voice that Emma concluded must have been perfected in the military.

All extraneous movement in the choir ceased. Heads bowed instantly. Emma lowered her chin to her chest but kept her eyes wide open.

“Lord,” Daniel began, “we ask for Your peace tonight. There’s a storm blowing through Glory Community and only You can help calm the waters. You know better than us that truly devoted believers often disagree about the best ways to advance the Kingdom of God. Well—give all of us the hearts to forgive our debtors. And help us to remember that we raise our voices in this building for one purpose only—to proclaim Your glory. In Jesus’s name we pray.”

Emma joined in the rumbling group “Amen.” Daniel Hartman had spoken a fairly reasonable prayer—one she had no qualms affirming.

Daniel continued, “Someone find Nina. Assure her that her choir will be prepared to sing rather than fight after the break.”

Emma felt a touch on her arm. She turned and saw Rafe’s smiling face.

“You look confused,” he said. “Don’t you know what’s going on at our church?”

Emma fought to control her irritation at his remark. She scanned the practice room. The choir had broken into several small groups. No one was looking their way. She bent her head close to his.

“If you had asked me this morning, Mr. Neilson, I would have gladly explained that I am not a member of Glory Community Church. I sing in your choir for three specific reasons. One, I have a good voice. Two, I enjoy choral singing. And three, Nina McEwen is a fabulous choral director.

“Moving right along—I understand all too well how churches work. The chief reason I chose not to join Glory Community Church is that The Scottish Captain keeps me busy fifteen hours a day and I have no time left for church politics or taking sides in silly debates. I had intended to join Glory Community, but Nina was kind enough to warn me about the current fight, without giving me any details. I decided to bide my time. I saw no need to become part of a church in crisis.”

Emma was pleased to note that her declaration knocked the wind out of Rafe’s sails. His smile had faded as she spoke, along with the grating I’m-a-cop-who-knows-everything self-assurance written across his face.

But along with her amusement, Emma felt a surprising stab of guilt. She had told Rafe the truth, but not the whole truth. The ongoing fight was only part of the reason she’d refused to become a member of Glory Community.

Two years earlier, Emma’s then husband had filed for a no-fault divorce, moved out of their home and announced that he really, truly loved another woman. Much to Emma’s astonishment, most of her church friends back in Seattle blamed her for the failure of the marriage.

“Emma put her career ahead of her marriage.”

“Emma canceled too many vacations because of her work.”

“Emma should have quit her job and had children like a normal woman.”

Her small group, the people she worked with on the church’s hospitality team, even the other members of the praise choir turned against her.

Emma drove the unhappy memories away by focusing on the present. “Perhaps I’ll change my mind when the brawling is over,” she said to Rafe.

“I assumed that everyone in the choir was also a member of the church,” he said.

“Why would you assume that?”

He shook his head. He started to speak, but shook his head again and gazed into the distance.

Emma found herself intrigued by the way Rafe was suddenly tongue-tied. It gave him the demeanor of a little lost boy—and, surprisingly, made him seem attractive to Emma for the first time today.

She used the opportunity to study Rafe. He stood a bit over six feet tall and had the lithe, athletic frame of a man who frequently worked out at a gym. He had short sandy hair, deep-set hazel eyes and an agreeably handsome face—now that his earlier arrogance had vanished. Perhaps she could help him remove the foot he had placed so squarely in his mouth?

“This morning you seemed surprised that I didn’t understand the Phantom Avenger’s message to me. Please tell me what I need to know.”

Rafe hesitated. Emma could almost hear him thinking, Does she really mean it? He eventually gave a cautious nod of agreement. “Have you heard of the Caruthers bequest?”

“Nary a word.”

“John Caruthers was a choir member for thirty years. When he died last year, he left the church six hundred thousand dollars. John put one stipulation on his gift—it must be used to advance the church’s ministry of music.”

“How?”

“That’s the root of the problem. Two groups have come up with plans for investing the bequest. One wants to replace our electronic organ with a full-size pipe organ to enhance the traditional service. The other wants to rebuild the sanctuary and install the kind of electronic instruments and audiovisual equipment to support a world-class contemporary service. The two schools of thought have hardened into opposite sides. The church is split down the middle.”

Emma sighed heavily. “Why do so many Christians I meet fight with each other about church?”

“The fans of the contemporary service invented the Phantom Avenger. You heard Debbie Akers—she and her colleagues have launched their self-styled campaign of civil disobedience because the Glory Gazette has come out on the side of the Traditionalists.” He peered inquiringly at her. “You have heard of the Gazette?”

“Of course. I spoke to the editor today. He seemed very sympathetic.”

“Rex Grainger sang with Lily Kirk in the choir for more than two decades. He retired from the choir three years ago, but the Gazette is squarely in the Traditionalist camp.”

“He promised to publish a hard-hitting story about the Beetle.”

“Rex will need to add pages. The Phantom Avenger struck four times this week.”

“More cars on porches?”

“In the middle of Monday morning, someone moved a two-foot-long koi fish from Richard Squires’s pond to the Memorial Fountain opposite Town Hall.”

“So that’s the defenseless fish that Lily mentioned.”

“The Phantom’s note said, ‘We won’t scale down our demands for a better contemporary service.”

Emma chuckled. “The Phantom has a bizarre sense of humor.”

“Fortunately, our fountain is fed by unchlorinated springwater—or else that koi would be history. Richard claims his big goldfish is twenty-five years old and worth more than two thousand bucks.”

Emma looked across the practice room at a balding man in his fifties who sang tenor in the choir. He was engaged in an animated conversation with Tony Taylor. She turned back to Rafe and said, “Richard must support the Traditionalists.”

“All the way. He loves hymns and hates praise music.” He chuckled. “And so does Lily Kirk. Yesterday, someone dressed up the statue of Moira McGregor in Founders Park to look like Lily and put a sign around her neck. ‘Attention, all pigeons in the vicinity of Glory. Please show Ms. Kirk what you think of the traditional service. The Phantom Avenger strikes again!’”

Emma tried not to laugh, but a giggle came out nonetheless. She quickly said, “Who was the target of the fourth prank?”

Rafe seemed to fight back a smile. “Gary Porter—my boss. Yesterday, Chief Porter found a phony parking ticket tied to his radio antenna. It read, ‘Caught in the act of trafficking with blowhard Traditionalists who insist on buying an old-fashioned pipe organ. We believe that you would come to church regularly to worship at an arresting contemporary service. Don’t fail to yield!’”

“Is the chief a member of the church?”

“No, but his daughter is. Michelle Porter Engle.” Rafe gestured discreetly toward the petite redhead who stood chatting with Lily Kirk. “One of your fellow sopranos—and also a steadfast advocate of our traditional service.”

Emma leaned back against the wall. She really wanted to sit down, but the only unoccupied chairs were across the room. “How did I get lumped in with the Traditionalists?”

Rafe shrugged. “Most of the choir supports the traditional service. That’s the way I feel—and that’s how I had you pegged. The Avenger must have made the same mistake.”

“Do you know who the Phantom is?”

“I have my suspicions.” He chuckled.

“Are you going to do anything about it?”

“If you mean, do I plan to arrest the ringleaders, the answer is no. You won’t see any perps in handcuffs tonight.”

“I didn’t get my hopes up real high. I know how law enforcement works in small towns where everyone knows everyone else. I grew up in an even smaller town in northeastern Pennsylvania.”

“It’s not that simple. First, I haven’t been able to determine what crimes were committed. We don’t have a statute or ordinance that criminalizes the relocation of a big goldfish. Second, I don’t see any criminal intent in what was done—the pranks are technical violations, at worst. However…” Rafe’s expression became serious. “However, I plan to speak to the folks involved face-to-face and explain why you—and Richard Squires—are extremely displeased. I’ll try to arrange some free yard work in return for your three complimentary weekends.”

Emma took a moment to think about it. “That seems fair enough, considering no real damage was done. My porch is okay, and the couple from Baltimore drove north after breakfast. Case closed!” She peered at him. “Do cops really say that?”

“Sure. Except this case won’t be really closed until our church decides how to spend the six hundred thousand dollars.” Rafe looked down at his hands. “Paul was right—money is the root of all evil.”

“He didn’t write that.” Emma waited until Rafe glanced quizzically at her. “Paul had nothing against wealth. He warned us against the love of money.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. Check out First Timothy. Chapter six. Near the middle.”

“I’m impressed. You know your Bible.” He offered a rueful smile. “I wish I did.”

“I’ve been studying the Bible since I was a kid.”

Rafe laughed. “A Bible whiz who refuses to join a church—that’s an odd combination.”

“Not really,” Emma said quietly. “I love Christianity. It’s those Christians that fight I can do without.”

THREE

The blue clapboard Victorian on Front Street was a smaller house than Rafe had wanted. It had only one full bathroom and a single-car garage, and cost half-again more than he had planned to spend, thanks to its stunning view of Albemarle Sound. But his teenage daughter, Kate, had loved the “gingerbread-detailed charmer” from the instant she saw its picture pinned up in the front window of the Realtor’s. That had been enough to sway Rafe.

Every light in the house was turned on when Rafe maneuvered his Corvette into the driveway—a gentle protest by Kate that he had left home before sunup and was returning fourteen hours later. A small-town policeman’s lot included long days, but Rafe usually managed to eat breakfast and supper at home. Today, the pranks had gotten in the way.

He found her in the living room watching a cheerleading DVD. He moved behind her and kissed the top of her head just as a blond cheerleader on the TV screen tumbled to the ground from the top of a three-layer pyramid of fellow cheerleaders.

“Oooh, that’s gotta hurt,” Kate said.

“Is this some sort of training video? Teaching you about safety, I hope.”

“Uh-uh. It’s an hour of cheerleading goofs and bloopers. Funny stuff.”

“Not for the gals who hit the ground hard. Or their parents.” Rafe came around to the front of the sofa and sat down next to Kate. She was fifteen, with a tall, long-legged, athletic build and a face that was pretty and intelligent at the same time. She had big brown eyes, fine features and shoulder-length reddish-brown hair. Rafe’s eyes flicked toward the framed photograph atop a bookcase. Kate was becoming more like her mother with every passing day.

“I’m on the freshman cheerleader squad, remember?” Kate said. “No jumps or stunts or pyramids.”

“For which I am exceptionally grateful.”

She used the remote to turn off the TV. “Anything interesting happen today?”

He grinned and tapped the end of her nose. “A good try, but I’m sure that every kid in town knows about the Volkswagen.”

She countered by tapping his nose. “How was choir practice? Anything unusual happen?”

“Wow. You even know about the fight. I’m impressed—the power of cell phones in the hands of teenagers is awesome.”

Rafe felt sure that she cracked a smile.

“I didn’t arrest anyone tonight,” he said, “but I will if there are any more wrestling matches at church. We actually had a pretty good rehearsal after the hotheads cooled down.”

Kate nodded.

“My theory,” he said, “is that the epidemic of pranks in Glory has put lots of people on edge.”

Kate focused her eyes on the remote control in her lap.

“Let’s go off the record,” he said. “I want to send a message to the student who’s planning the gags. I presume you know who’s in charge, since you know everything about everyone under the age of twenty-one within a radius of fifty miles.”

“Why assume a kid is responsible?”

“Because I don’t know any adults who could convince the high school football team to move a Volkswagen Beetle from a parking lot to a porch.”

“It’s not that simple….” She finished the sentence with a shrug.

“No?”

“There isn’t a single student in charge—it’s more of a committee.”

“Committees have chairpersons.”

“This one has a book.”

“A book…?”

“Great Practical Jokes of the 1950s and 1960s. It’s an antique, published way back in 1970. Kids are passing it around Glory High like the baton in a relay race. Whoever has the book must do one of the jokes. Then he or she gives the book to someone else who has the nerve to do another one.”

“Specifically, a high school student who also supports the contemporary service at Glory Community Church?”

“Well, duh!”

“Do you have to attend our church to receive the book?”

“Nope. You just have to know what kind of music you prefer.”

“Do I have to ask which side you’re on?”

“I think organ chords are icky. They make me think of old horror movies. Anyway, I like to hear drums when I listen to music, and they never have drums in a traditional service.”

“Never?”

“Never!” She added a definitive shake of her head.

Rafe thought about it and realized that Kate might be right. He had seen many kinds of musical instruments played at traditional church services—violins, cellos, trumpets, guitars, flutes, trombones, pianos, bells, even an accordion—but never a full drum set. Those who favored drum-accompanied music would probably prefer a contemporary service. Of course, Kate also seemed to have more than a passing interest in the seventeen-year-old male drummer who played at Glory Community every Sunday.

“Tell me more about this antique book,” he said.

“It’s incredibly cool…” she began, and then realized her mistake.

“I get it. The book was passed to you.”

“No comment.”

“I assume that means you committed a prank.”

Kate fiddled with the remote in her hands. “You’ll never get me to confess to anything.”

“Then let me play detective. You don’t know much about cars, so you wouldn’t come up with the idea of moving a Volkswagen. You’re too smart—and I think too compassionate—to risk killing a fish. You don’t have easy access to the old clothing placed on Moira McGregor. But you do have a fancy computer, several graphics programs and a good ink-jet printer. I think you created the phony traffic ticket found dangling from Chief Porter’s radio antenna. In fact, the more I think about it the more sense it makes. You weren’t taking much risk marching into the parking lot behind Police Headquarters and affixing said ticket. If anyone spotted you, you could simply say you left something in my ’Vette.”

“I admit to nothing.”

“The clincher is the spelling error.”

Kate peered at him quizzically.

“You wrote ‘trafficing,’ without the k. The correct spelling is trafficking. We both know that spelling is your weakest subject.”

Kate pushed a lock of hair away from her face but said nothing. Rafe pressed on. “Where did the book come from? Don’t try to tell me it’s on loan from the school library.”

“Well, I don’t know this for a total fact, but I think the book came from Sam Lange’s bookstore.”

Rafe grunted. The Glory Book Nook was the logical source for an “antique” book. Although Sam sold both new and used books, he seemed to make more money from the old volumes on his shelves. He specialized in quirky topics and did a thriving Internet business with book collectors.

“Okay, I’ll do some more detecting. Jake Moore, a junior at Glory High, works three afternoons a week and all day Saturday at the Book Nook, so he had the means to acquire the book in question. Jake is also a member of the church choir, which gives him a motive…except…”

“Except what?”

“Jake doesn’t like the contemporary service. He’s supposed to be on the same side as Lily Kirk. So he can’t be involved.”

“Right.”

“Except…”

“Now what?”

“That ‘right’ you just spoke sounded suspicious. It’s got me thinking.”

“About what?”

“About how devilishly clever your side is.” He poked at her ribs. “Jake Moore is an undercover agent. You placed a spy in the opposition’s camp.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about,” she said airily.

“Okay, then let’s talk about the book some more. How nasty do the collected pranks get?”

“Well, the book shows you how to do lots of things that go ‘bang.’ A couple of guys were interested, but these days you can’t go to a drugstore and buy the ingredients to make homemade explosives.”

“And the people said, ‘Amen!’”

“Some of the pranks are impossibly gross. Itching powder, stink bombs and paper bags filled with horse manure.”

“I know that one! You put the paper bag on the victim’s porch, set fire to the top of the bag and ring the bell. Most people put out the fire by stomping on the bag.”

Kate grimaced. “That’s awful. I don’t like jokes that need to be cleaned up with a shovel. Pranks should make people laugh.”

“Like a phony parking ticket presented to the chief of police?”

“That sounds funny to me.”

“Actually, the Chief wasn’t amused in any way, shape or form. He offered to shoot the person responsible.”

Kate sat up straight. “Are we finished talking about practical jokes?”

“Do you have another topic in mind?”

“I’ve been told that you were checking out Emma McCall this morning at The Scottish Captain.”

“Checking her out?”

“Watching her with more than professional interest.”

“Who told you that?”

“You were also seen talking with her tonight at church.”

Rafe felt his eyebrows rise. Who, he wondered, was Kate’s source of information? He tried to remember if Jake Moore was also a member of the Glory Gremlins. He was certainly large enough to play football.

“And your point is?” Rafe said.

“You are considered absolutely awesome, while everyone knows that she’s a total loser. Think carefully before you do anything that might ruin your reputation.”

Rafe didn’t want to laugh aloud, but he couldn’t stop himself.

“The poppers are magnificent here,” Lily said, “I recommend them highly. I believe they’re homemade.”

Emma knew better. Dan’s Pizza Deluxe undoubtedly bought frozen, machine-made poppers, ten-pounds at a time, but why shatter Lily’s illusions or begin a pointless discussion about the tawdry secrets of cheap restaurants?

Emma scanned the menu quickly. It seemed late for deep-fried jalapeño peppers stuffed with cream cheese, but a greasy pizza might be even less digestible. And more expensive. She guessed that Lily was stretching a tight budget to pay for their impromptu after-rehearsal snack.

“Why don’t we share an order of poppers?” Emma said.

“That’s a grand idea.” Lily sounded relieved as she caught the waitress’s attention. “One order of poppers and two iced teas.”

Emma waited patiently for Lily to begin the conversation—almost certainly a long-winded recruiting speech encouraging Emma to become active in the ongoing church battle. Why couldn’t people understand that she didn’t care enough about the issue to take sides? Why couldn’t they simply leave her alone?

Emma had been walking to her Volvo when Lily suddenly appeared at her side. “We don’t know each other very well, Mrs. McCall, but I have a question that I must ask you.”

Emma didn’t point out that McCall was her maiden name and she had abandoned the “Mrs.” label when she moved to Glory. She simply said, “A question? About what?”

“The rain may begin again at any minute. Why don’t we go for quick snack? My treat, of course.” Lily gestured toward an old Ford Taurus sedan.

Reluctantly, Emma dropped her car keys into her purse. She had been awake since four-thirty and wanted to get to bed, but Lily possessed a peculiar authority—a strange presence—that compelled Emma to agree. She obediently followed the woman to the well-cared-for silver Ford and opened the passenger’s door. She paid little attention to the elderly vehicle until she slid past the high side bolsters on her bucket seat.

This feels like a sports car seat.

Emma looked around. Enough light spilled into the car from the lampposts in the church’s parking lot to see that the Taurus had black-leather interior and a five-speed manual transmission. Lily pushed the clutch pedal and worked the ignition key. The engine roared to life and settled into a thrumming idle.

Lily revved the engine and turned to Emma. “This is my baby, my one luxury. She’s a Taurus SHO, one of the first built in 1989. ‘SHO’ stands for super high output. There’s a three-liter Yamaha V6 under the hood. Top speed is supposed to be 143 miles per hour, but I’ve never had her above 120.”

Emma pulled her seat belt tight as Lily accelerated along King Street.

“I enjoy life in the fast lane,” Lily said, with a giggle, as she accelerated again. “But only at night when most of the cops in town are asleep.” She braked hard, downshifted and then made a screeching right turn onto Main Street.

Emma watched the dark road whiz past. Beyond Glory’s town limits, Main Street became State Route 34A, which ran north to Route 17 then on to Elizabeth City, some twenty miles away. Dan’s Pizza Deluxe was about a mile up the road. Halfway there, Lily tooted her car’s horn.

“What’s that for?” Emma had asked.

“I like to give the animals a fair warning,” Lily had said. “A honk now and then gives the raccoons and deer a chance to get out of our way.” Lily patted Emma’s hand. “You won’t tell anybody, will you?”

“Tell them what?”

“About my speeding and horn blowing.” Lily had laughed. “It’s my little secret. Only a few of my friends know. Most people in Glory think I’m a mild-mannered retired librarian who never drives faster than fifty-five miles per hour.”

Emma joined in the laughter. “Your little secret is safe with me.”

The waitress brought their drinks. She was a slender young woman with dyed red hair and a sour expression that Emma doubted did much to encourage food sales. “Your poppers will be out in a minute.”

Lily waited until they were alone before she said, “I appreciate your willingness to take time away from The Scottish Captain to meet with me. I’ve been told that innkeepers are on duty twenty-four hours a day.”

“Well, some days are longer than others,” Emma replied.

This one, for example.

Lily pressed on, “I’ve never stayed at a bed-and-breakfast, so I can only guess how much work is involved. Do your guests expect you to be on call throughout the day?”

Emma tried to read Lily’s face. She seemed genuinely interested in the mechanics of running a B and B.

“I try to be available when guests are up and about. My housekeeper holds down the fort two or three afternoons a week so that I can run errands. Today, for example, I had an appointment in Norfolk. Tomorrow, I have to drive to Elizabeth City to interview a new food supplier.”

“Ah.” Lily’s face brightened. “Then it is likely I will see you again tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow evening?” Emma felt bewildered by Lily’s sudden change of tack.

“I’ll be a guest at the next meeting of the Writing for Glory Club.”

“Now I understand,” Emma said. The local writer’s club, chaired by Sara Knoll met twice a month—the first and third Thursdays—at The Scottish Captain. “Are you a writer?”

“Oh, no. Sara Knoll invited me to hear her talk about her work in progress. We’ve become good friends during the past few months. She’s been exceptionally generous with her computer expertise.” Lily peered at Emma. “You do know that Ms. Knoll has authored more than a dozen published books.”

“Of course.” Everyone who attended Glory Community Church knew that Sara wrote the popular Martha Does It series of how-to books for women on subjects that ranged from household hints to electrical wiring to setting up a computer network. “Come a few minutes early and browse around the Captain. I’m proud of the renovations and redecorating I’ve done.”

“Renovations?” Lily said sharply. “Have you done any major reconstruction?”

“Our kitchen is new and so are the guest bathrooms. The six guest bedrooms have new wallpaper and carpeting.”

“Did you make any structural changes to the first floor?”

“Nothing significant. Do you know the Captain?”

“It’s been many years since I’ve been inside.” Lily stared into space for several seconds. “I may accept your kind offer to browse around—assuming of course that I survive those miserable pranksters.”

Emma took a sip of iced tea.

Here it comes. A sales pitch to join her “side.”

But Lily surprised Emma. She, too, began to sip her tea and said nothing more until the waitress arrived with a platter of poppers and two smaller plates.

“They look especially good tonight.” Lily slid a popper onto her plate. “I hope you enjoy them.”

The poppers provided a second surprise for Emma. They were baked rather than fried and didn’t look mass-produced. She sliced one into thirds and tasted a piece.

“These are superb,” she said. “They are homemade.”

“Dave is an extraordinary cook. He used to be the hors d’oeuvre chef at the Hamilton House Hotel in New York City. He’s another big-city native who moved to Glory.”

Emma felt mildly annoyed at the way Lily emphasized “another.” She responded with, “I believe you wanted to ask me a question.”

Lily flushed slightly. “Yes, although I’ve been doing my best to avoid it.” She sighed. “I’d best dive right in. I couldn’t help notice you speaking with Rafe Neilson at the church this evening. Did you by any chance discuss the wave of pranks sweeping Glory?”

“Among other things,” Emma said, in a harsher tone than she meant to.

Lily’s expression grew tense. “I’m not trying to pry into your personal relationships, Mrs. McCall. I have a reason for asking.”

Emma paused to regain her composure. “We did talk about the pranks. A total of four have been committed. I became the…subject of the fourth practical joke this morning.”

“So I heard. The ancient ‘Beetle on the porch’ gag.” Lily carefully set her knife and fork down on her plate. “Does he know whether any of the mischief was mean-spirited? Does the so-called ‘Phantom Avenger’ wish to cause physical harm to his victims?”

“The four pranks were silly attacks on property, not people.” Emma abruptly pictured a flock of pigeons settling on the real Lily Kirk. She swallowed a snigger. “Rafe doesn’t see any criminal intent in what was done.”

“He told you that?”

“Those are his words.”

Lily nodded slowly. “That makes me feel much better. You see, earlier this evening a pickup truck nearly pushed me off the road.”

“My goodness!” Emma set her own fork down. “When? Where?”

“Two miles north on State Route 34A. About a quarter to seven. I’d driven to an industrial supply shop in Elizabeth City to buy a tube of the glue I use to repair books and I was racing through the rain to be on time for choir practice.” Lily hesitated, as if she were reluctant to relive the memory.

“Go on.” Emma thought back to earlier that evening. At a quarter to seven she’d been on the same road, but had been farther away from town.

“All at once I saw a huge grill in my rearview mirror. The truck actually tapped me—you can see the dent in the back bumper. I tromped on the gas and got out of there. I didn’t see the truck after that.”

“Do you think the driver hit you on purpose?”

“My first thought was that a prankster was trying to frighten me. But it may have been nothing more than an exuberant teenager who got careless while driving his father’s pickup truck.”

“Did you tell the police?”

“I intended to talk to Rafe after choir practice. But now I don’t dare bother him—not after the contretemps at church this evening.”

Emma needed a moment to remember that contretemps meant quarrel. “A quarrel in the choir is one thing. But if someone tried to harm you…I think you should talk to Rafe. He seems reasonable.”

“Most women in Glory find him more than reasonable,” Lily smiled. “We don’t have an abundance of thirty-eight-year-old, good-looking single men in Glory.” She shook her head. “No. This time I won’t talk to Rafe. A dent in my back bumper doesn’t prove anything. And since the pranks are essentially harmless, Rafe is likely to conclude I’m a hysterical older woman who suffers from a touch of paranoia.”

Emma chewed on a piece of popper and made a mental note to talk to Dave about providing poppers—and other appetizers—to the Scottish Captain. She also wondered what she should do about the fear she heard in Lily’s voice.

FOUR

Daniel Hartman peered into the church’s refrigerator and allowed himself to sigh. “No real cream, and no milk,” he said. “All I can offer you is powdered creamer.”

“That will do me fine,” Sara Knoll replied. “After twenty-five years as an international journalist, I’m used to tight rations and impromptu meeting places.”

“In that event, let’s talk right here. What could be more impromptu than our kitchen?” He handed her a ceramic mug full of coffee and gestured toward a pair of wooden stools next to a stainless-steel food preparation table. “I don’t want to keep you long tonight, but I do want to review the progress your committee is making.”

Daniel sipped his own coffee. The church’s Elder Board had appointed a committee to recommend how to spend the Caruthers bequest. Sara was its chair—an excellent choice, given her background and experience. Daniel considered Sara a no-nonsense, get-the-job-done professional. She would have made a fine army officer had she chosen a different career path.

“What progress?” She shrugged. “We’re deadlocked.”

“How can you be? You have five members. That means no tie votes.”

She smiled wryly. “We agreed from the start to require a minimum of four votes to make a final recommendation. Alas, our committee consists of two inflexible Contemporaries, two unyielding Traditionalists, and me. I abstain whenever we vote because that’s the only way I know to stay friendly with both sides.”

“Has it worked?

“So far.” Sara added a nod. “I’m perceived as neutral—which has helped both sides to remain civil to each other during our meetings.” A frown spread across her face. “But our civility hasn’t translated into progress. I can summarize what the committee has done with a single word—nothing.”

Daniel paused to gather his thoughts. “I fear for the future of Glory Community Church. Our highly polarized rift is the kind of conflict that can wreck a church fellowship. What bothers me most is that I don’t know how to get our people to back down from their sincerely held positions.” He added, “The elders rightly expect me to get everyone working toward a solution that will make the whole congregation happy.”

“Isn’t that a trick that pastors learn on the job?” she said with another smile.

He grinned back. “I spent twenty-one years in the U.S. Army and rose through the ranks to become a colonel, commanding a cadre of other chaplains. My experience taught me leadership, not conflict resolution.”

“I presume that shouting ‘Attention!’ has a greater effect in the army than in a church.”

“Oh, I can yell loud enough to stop a fight in the choir loft, but what do I do next? I wish that your ‘Martha’ books included a volume on compromise and forgiveness.” He toasted Sara with his coffee mug. “Your new book on working with stained glass will come in handy should we have to replace broken panels in the sanctuary.”

“Sorry, but Stained Glass Made Simple is the next book in the series. The one I have to deliver the day before Thanksgiving is called Finding Undiscovered Treasures in Your Attic.”

He chuckled. “That’s bound to be a bestseller in Glory. The older houses in town have upward of a hundred fifty years of accumulated junk in their attics.”

“All of which someone wants to buy. Thanks to the auction sites on the Internet, ‘junk’ is an obsolete concept. The trick is to locate the one person somewhere in the world who actually covets the trinket or doodad or knickknack your great-great grandmother stuffed into a cardboard box all those decades ago.”

“Getting back to our problem…” Daniel began.

Sara interrupted. “I think you’re being too hard on yourself. After all, fights about music in church are a recent phenomenon, a challenge that’s caught pastors by surprise.”

“Actually…” He spoke softly to avoid sounding like a schoolteacher giving a lecture. “Traditional music versus contemporary music has been a battleground for two thousand years. During the first century some Christians argued that the use of musical instruments of any kind during worship was either too much like the old Hebrew ceremonies or too pagan. Fifteen hundred years later the fight centered on whether secular music, harmony and folk melody should be banned from church, and whether all musical instruments except the organ should be eliminated.”

Sara made a face. “I stand corrected. Our fight is clearly part of a long tradition, but I can’t help feeling that the battle is unnecessary. We have two services, one traditional and one contemporary. The Caruthers bequest provides more than enough money to keep both sides happy.”

“True. We have plenty of cash but only one sanctuary, which both groups want to redesign. That’s really the crux of the disagreement.”

She threw up her hands. “Exactly! The Traditionalists want it to look like a European cathedral. The Contemporaries want to give it the feel of a modern megachurch.” She added, “The Traditionalists and the Contemporaries have both lost focus. We worship to please God, not ourselves.”

“Both groups think they have that angle covered, too. Lily told me that God enjoys hymns and could not possibly be pleased with an insipid rock song that repeats the same simple words ten times over. Debbie Akers insists that God must be ‘bored off his gourd,’ as she put it, with a thousand years of dull hymn music and even duller words. Consequently, she says contemporary services have become wildly popular thanks to divine intervention.”

Sara laughed. “I’m sorry, Daniel, but the battle at Glory Community does have a humorous side.”

“I might have agreed with you a few months ago, but the truth is I don’t find our fight funny anymore. I’m too worried that someone will get hurt.”

Emma deftly carried a tray laden with an insulated carafe, two mugs and a plate of shortbread cookies as she led Simon Rogers to the gazebo in The Scottish Captain’s back garden. The old wooden octagon was a pretty spot for a chat after breakfast, and also far enough away from the main house that it afforded a measure of privacy. The sun felt delightfully warm that Thursday morning. The weather forecast called for the temperature to climb into the high sixties by lunchtime.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” Simon said. “The other travel writers in our group are going fishing for striped bass in Albemarle Sound. I would rather chew on ground glass. I would certainly get seasick and, with my bad luck, I would catch a dozen fish and be required to eat them.”

“Assuming you could find someone to clean and cook them for you. We don’t clean and fry fish for our guests at The Scottish Captain.”

“Now I’m doubly glad I stayed behind. Today will be a perfect opportunity to recharge my batteries. There’s a day trip to the Outer Banks tomorrow.”

“Then you have no plans for this morning?”

“Not really. I shall pretend that I’m a road weary New England snowbird who decided to spend a down day in Glory, North Carolina. The tour of the grand houses and local museum yesterday was fascinating. I shall continue to browse around the town and soak up the ambience.” He brushed a cookie crumb out of his beard. “With luck I’ll find another Beetle on another porch.”

Emma hoped that Simon didn’t notice how she winced. The last thing Glory needed was a rowdy reputation among travel writers. Emma had her future tied up in The Scottish Captain. Her B and B must succeed and that would only happen if Glory prospered as she’d predicted it would.

“Please don’t get the wrong idea about Glory,” she said evenly. “We specialize in quiet, prank-free vacations.”

“Oh yes, Glory is definitely a quiet place—which leads me to ask an impertinent question. Why would someone like you decide to abandon Seattle, a vibrant big city, and move to a pastoral southern town that even the Union Army avoided during the Civil War?”

The jolt of astonishment she felt came out as a nervous hiccup. She hadn’t shared her biography with Simon Rogers, but he seemed to know a lot about her. Emma took a sip of coffee to help clear her throat. “You mentioned that I moved here from Seattle. Where did you come across that tidbit of information?”

“On the Internet, of course. Yesterday, I visited the Glory Public Library and typed your name into Google. Several ‘hits’ pointed to your biography.” He grinned. “That’s what happens when you become well-known enough in your field to make presentations at national hotel management conferences.”

Emma bit her tongue. When she’d calmed down, she said, “My presenting days are over. I didn’t realize that my bio was still online.”

“Oh, yes, once on the Internet, information seems to linger forever. I must say that your hostelry credentials are impressive. As I recall, you earned your bachelor’s degree from the prestigious Cornell University School of Hotel Administration, and you were appointed general manager of the Pacific Monarch Hotel in Seattle at the tender age of thirty-three. I’ve stayed at the Monarch—it’s one of the most elegant hotels in the west. You obviously know your stuff.”

Emma smiled. “Thank you. I like working in the hospitality business.”

“I’m equally fascinated by your athletic prowess. Imagine, a champion women’s softball pitcher serving us breakfast.”

“I loved softball when I was a kid. I played on an intramural team at Cornell, and I joined a women’s league in Seattle. My team, the Pacific Princesses, did manage to win the league championship three years ago. Softball is great fun and good exercise. End of story.”

“To restate my original question in different words,” Simon said, “why did you give up managing a world-class Seattle hotel and decide to run a small B and B?”

Emma tried to look thoughtful, as if she were pondering a difficult question. In fact, this was a question she had faced dozens of times, always with a pat answer that seemed to satisfy people—and had little to do with reality.

“After working in large hotels for more than a decade,” she said, “I decided that I prefer the personal touch of managing a B and B. Back in Seattle, I dealt with crises from dawn to dusk. I had no time to think, much less talk to the guests. I prefer sharing a pot of coffee with you and enjoying a pleasant fall morning.”

Simon grinned with apparent delight. Emma grinned back.

She could hear the conviction in her voice. She had become uncomfortably adept at avoiding the truth, but how could she admit that her chief motivation for moving to North Carolina’s coastal Albemarle Region was its distance from Seattle, Washington? A small B and B in a dot-on-the-map town seemed the last place in the country that her ex-husband or his vast family would ever visit.

More to the point, Emma thought, the “truth” was rapidly becoming irrelevant. So what if she ran away from a bad situation? After a year at The Scottish Captain her perspective changed. She now realized that she’d actually run toward a much happier life.

Emma poured a second mug of coffee for Simon.

“Now, as for choosing Glory,” she went on, “I applied every scrap of economic forecasting and financial-planning experience I’d acquired working at large hotels. I concluded that Glory is an undiscovered treasure, an unspoiled little town with lots to see and do, that is destined to become a highly regarded attraction. I invested every cent of my savings in The Scottish Captain. I truly believe that I selected the right place at the right time.”

Emma punctuated her words with an emphatic nod. Here, she was expressing the way she really felt, even though she knew that little Glory was still overshadowed by its well-known neighbors. Edenton, some twenty miles west, had more history to offer tourists—including its own Revolutionary-era “tea party.” And Elizabeth City, fifteen miles north, was the region’s commercial center, a popular stopping point for yachtsmen traversing the Dismal Swamp Canal on the Intracoastal Waterway.

“I agree with you,” Simon said. “Glory is a surprising little town, and I am difficult to surprise. What has impressed me most are the people I’ve met so far. Really top notch. Lots of fascinating characters.”

“Characters?”

“That came out badly. Let me start again.” He poured cream into his mug and stirred. “Travel writing is fun, but I don’t want to mass-produce travel articles for the rest of my life. I hope to write fiction some day. Consequently, I’ve made it a habit to make note of interesting people who have the potential to become great characters in a novel. Glory added several new possibilities to my collection.”

“So that’s how novelists do it,” she said. “You adapt real-life people.”

“Sure. A good example is Glory’s high school football coach. I met him yesterday morning. He’s a hoot.”

“Tom Yeager,” she said with a sigh. “A man who knows how to strike a tough bargain.”

“Exactly! He’s an unusual blend of zeal, skill, confidence and cunning. That’s what makes him a good coach.”

Emma saw no point in arguing with Simon, who clearly thought himself a great judge of character. He wouldn’t want to hear that the Glory Gremlins had a losing record that most townsfolk blamed on Tom Yeager’s lack of coaching skill. “Who else have you met?”

“Sam Lange, the fellow who owns the Glory Book Nook. I don’t think I’ve come across a more knowledgeable book expert anywhere, and I love to visit bookstores. The fascinating thing about Sam is that he combines great expertise with a healthy dose of curmudgeonly behavior.” Simon threw back his head and laughed. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way. A sour temper is an integral part of his persona. It’s like the splash of malt vinegar on a plate of fish and chips.”

“Very perceptive.” Emma drank from her mug and imagined the “recipe” that Simon might assign to her. Mix a can of hospitality with a cup of wishful thinking. Season with a dash of rotten luck in choosing a husband, then bake for thirty-seven years. Yields one healthy serving of Emma McCall. Or perhaps he didn’t see her as a fascinating character. “Did anyone else in town catch your literary eye?”

“Rafe Neilson, of course. A cop in a small town, but hardly a small-town cop. I could write a whole novel about the past five years of his life.”

“Really? I don’t know much about him,” she said, then immediately regretted her choice of words. They made her sound disconnected from the rest of Glory.

Simon hadn’t noticed her gaffe. He was far too busy retelling what he had learned about Rafe the day before. Emma settled back in her chair and let him prattle away.

The things I have to put up with to run a bed-and-breakfast.

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