Glory Be!. Ron/Janet Benrey

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      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, СКАЧАТЬ