Gone To Glory. Ron/Janet Benrey

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      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 СКАЧАТЬ