by Ron Benrey
Ann felt her heart patter wildly. She tried to remember what she had said to Richard, but couldn’t summon up her exact words or recall her tone of voice. Had she sounded apprehensive? It was possible. She’d definitely been worried.
He pressed Play.
Her voice emerged from the machine’s speaker. “Richard, it’s Ann Trask, at the church. I tried to start the generator. It ran for a few seconds, then died. Something’s wrong with the fuel system. I don’t want to spend the night inside a pitch-black church during a hurricane if the power fails. The note on the wall says to call you in case of trouble. Can you come over right away?”
Phil Meade rose to his feet. “Do you want me to play it again? I want to make certain that you heard the frightened tremor in your voice.”
“There’s no need to play it again, Phil,” Ann said, struggling to conceal her embarrassment.
“I didn’t think you’d want me to. There’s not a hint in your call to Richard that you were concerned about the emergency shelter. The call is all about you being alone in the church in the dark. You dragged Richard out unnecessarily and put him in danger. That’s why he ended up in the parking lot during the height of the storm. Had you waited for a true emergency—or for the heavy winds to abate—he would have escaped the falling steeple.”
Ann tried to find a good way to challenge Phil’s conclusion, but the recording had shaken her. Anyone who listened to the tape would agree with Phil. She could try to explain everything that was going on in her mind when she made the call, but Phil would only use it against her to make his point: that she shouldn’t have been left in charge of the emergency shelter.
Phil’s expression had grown dark and foreboding. He wagged a menacing finger at her and his voice rose. “I intend to make certain that you never again hold a position of responsibility in Glory that might put people’s lives at risk.”
She suddenly realized that Phil’s voice had carried throughout the room. She glanced around and found that the other people in the command center were staring at her. Glaring, actually. Except for Rafe Neilson, who seemed distressed by Phil’s tirade.
“We obviously have nothing more to talk about,” she said to Phil, amazed at the false bravado she’d been able to sustain in her own voice.
Then she stood up and walked slowly toward the door, determined to maintain her dignity. Once outside, another voice assailed her as she ran down the path that led to Campbell Street—one from deep inside her own mind. Rafe was right, after all. You did make things worse by confronting Phil Meade.
She strode west toward King Street and wondered what Phil meant by his nasty threat.
He can’t be serious. He’s merely blowing off steam. But in her heart of hearts, Ann knew that wasn’t true. Phil Meade had become an unwavering adversary.
On Wednesday morning, Sean tried to convince the hospital that he was well enough to walk but Sharon R.N. had insisted on calling a taxi. When Sean stepped out of a Glorious Cab in front of the Scottish Captain after a ridiculous two-block ride up Broad Street, the cabdriver echoed Sharon’s recommendation. “You’ll love The Captain. Emma Neilson operates one of the best B and Bs in North Carolina.”
Sean pressed the button next to the front door and heard a chime ring somewhere deep inside the pretty three-story white clapboard building. The door swung open and Sean found himself face-to-face with Deputy Police Chief Rafe Neilson.
The penny dropped. Emma Neilson. Rafe Neilson. Same last name.
“Rafe, I need a place to stay until our broadcast van is livable and drivable again.”
Rafe smiled at him. “I can accommodate you at the jail but my wife’s in charge of rooms at the Scottish Captain. Make yourself at home in the parlor—I’ll tell her you’re here.”
Sean settled himself into a deeply padded chaise lounge near the parlor door. He heard Rafe’s footsteps retreat to the back of the house, and he promptly dozed off.
“Mr. Miller?”
Sean awoke with a start to find an attractive woman standing over him. She was in her mid-thirties, with short dark hair and big brown eyes.
“My apologies for waking you,” she said. “That chaise is more soporific than a sleeping pill.” She held out her hand. “I’m Emma.”
Sean leveraged himself to his feet. “I need a room for a few days. I won’t know exactly how long until I commission a repair shop to fix our broadcast van.”
“We have six rooms—you can take your pick.” Emma gave a sardonic chuckle. “Gilda chased away our guests this week. Do you need help with your luggage?”
Sean shook his head. “My stuff is still inside the Storm Channel broadcast van. I’ll retrieve it this afternoon.”
“Have you had lunch yet?”
“That’s another item on my to-do list.”
“Rafe and I were sampling an experimental quiche whipped up by my breakfast chef, Calvin Constable. He’s known for his oddball combinations. Why don’t you help us decide if this one works?”
“Well, I do feel a bit peckish. Breakfast at the hospital didn’t exactly satisfy.”
“Follow me.” Emma led Sean into the Captain’s kitchen to a large round table and seated him opposite Rafe. She poured a cup of coffee and put a slice of quiche in front of him. “This should alleviate your peckishness.”
Sean used a fork to break off a chunk. He needed several seconds to identify the mystery quiche’s chief ingredients: Gorgonzola cheese, tomatoes, pepperoni, asparagus, anchovies and zucchini.
“I want your honest opinion,” Emma said.
“I’ve already given you mine,” Rafe said. “The first word that springs to mind is ‘yuck.’ Calvin is a great cook but a rotten inventor. This crazy mishmash tastes like pizza-flavored cat food.” Rafe took a swig of coffee and began to gargle with it. He swallowed abruptly when Emma poked him in the stomach. “I’d arrest the man if it wasn’t so difficult to find a good breakfast chef.”
“I’d still like to know what Sean thinks,” Emma said.
Rafe laughed as he stood up and walked toward a window. “The proof of the pudding is in the eating—and Sean has stopped eating.”
Sean debated his answer and finally decided that Emma needed nothing but the truth. “I have to agree with Rafe. ‘Yuck’ is an apt description for this particular quiche.”
“A customer has spoken,” Rafe said. “A hungry customer, to boot. Serve him one of Calvin’s sausage pies,” Rafe said. “They’re delectable.” He opened the back door. “Hey! I just saw the paperboy ride down Broad Street on his bike. Maybe we’ll have a newspaper today, after all.”
Sean had just lifted a forkful of sausage pie to his mouth when Rafe reappeared and said, “Talk about bad taste. This is a new low.”
“I take it you’re no longer talking about Calvin’s quiche,” Emma said.
“Rex Grainger published a special six-page hurricane edition of the Glory Gazette. Wait until you see the photograph he put at the top of page one.” Rafe dropped the abbreviated newspaper on the kitchen table.
Sean caught a glimpse of the front page and forgot the few uneaten bites of sausage pie. “That’s the fallen steeple,” he said, “and what’s left of the Storm Channel’s broadcast van.”
“Oh my goodness!” Emma poked at the photo with her index finger. “Am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?”
“’Fraid so,” Rafe said. “Those are Richard’s boots. The rest of him is covered by rubble.”
“I remember that sight,” Sean said, “but I don’t remember any photographers taking pictures.”
“Check the credit,” Emma said. “Rex Grainger shot the picture himself.”
“Phil Meade is going to skin him alive,” Rafe said.
“Well, at least he can’t blame Ann for the photo,” Emma said.
“I’m not so sure,” Rafe said. “He’s blamed her for everything else.”
“Who is Phil Meade?” Sean asked Emma.
Sean noted the cease-and-desist look that Rafe cast
at Emma. She ignored it and answered Sean’s asked—and unasked—questions.
“Phil is Glory’s director of emergency management. He blames Ann for Richard’s death.”
“Why?”
“Because she called Richard to the church.”
“Then he should also blame me,” Sean said. “I told Ann to call Richard to fix the generator.”
“Maybe you should explain that to Phil,” Emma said.
Rafe brought his hands together in the T-shaped timeout signal known to all football fans. “Bad idea! The more people who talk to Phil, the angrier he gets at Ann. Leave Phil alone—he needs time to cool off. He’ll figure out all by himself that he’s wrong.”
“No he won’t,” Emma said.
“Why doesn’t anybody ever listen to me?” Rafe asked.
“Look at this,” Sean said. “It’s Ann’s garage.”
The photo showed a tree limb poking through the roof of a detached garage behind a house. The caption read Gilda visited the Trask residence on Queen Street and proved to be an unwelcome guest.
Sean made out the number above the front door: 110.
“She didn’t mention the damage this morning.”
“I’m not sure she knows about it yet,” Rafe said. “I think she spent the night at the church.”
“When did you meet Ann?” Emma asked Sean.
“Yesterday. Last night, she rescued me from the storm. This morning, she visited Carlo and me in the hospital.”
“She’s a lovely woman,” Emma said. “Caring, smart as a whip, charming—and single, too.”
Rafe smiled at Sean. “In case you haven’t figured it out yet, my wife is a dyed-in-the-wool amateur matchmaker.”
When Sean finished eating, he walked the few blocks to Glory Community Church. He surveyed the destruction to the broadcast van and rescued his duffel full of clothing from the hanging locker. His belongings had survived the storm along with most of the van’s electronic equipment.
He called Cathy at the Storm Channel’s broadcast headquarters on his cell. “I estimate that Carlo will probably be fixed quicker than the van. It needs a radiator, a windshield, headlights, some interior fixes and lots of front-end bodywork. I’ll have some temporary repairs made so I can drive the van north.”
“How’s your head?” she asked.
“No better or worse than before.”
She chuckled. “In that case, we’ll leave you in Glory to watch over the van and Carlo. Keep me informed of their conditions.”
Sean closed his cell and asked a man working on trees for directions to Oliver Street. He had no difficulty finding Ann’s house. The big tree limb stabbing through the roof of her detached garage was visible from the street. The smaller branches had lost most of their leaves, making the limb look like some kind of bizarre TV antenna. Gilda had also ravaged most of the plants in Ann’s garden. A miniature forest of broken stems served as a reminder of what had been lost.
Ann was sitting on her front steps, her arms wrapped around herself. She looked utterly miserable—yet surprisingly pretty despite her obvious gloom.
“Sean,” she said when she spotted him. “You’ve come to visit me.”
Sean wanted to find the perfect words that would offer her comfort. But all he could manage was, “I’m so sorry about your garage, Ann.” He dug in his pocket and came up with an unused tissue for her.
“Thanks,” she said, accepting the tissue and quickly wiping away a tear.
He sat down next to her. “I know you have a plateful of other problems today.”
“What do you mean?” she asked, alarmed.
“I heard about the nasty things Glory’s emergency management director said to you.”
“How do you know about my meeting with Phil Meade?” Her eyes flashed angrily as she stared at him.
“I saw Rafe Neilson this morning.” Ann stood up and began to pace the porch. “You shouldn’t be taking heat for calling Richard Squires to the church. After all, I suggested—”
“Talk about rotten!” Ann said. “If you’ve heard what Phil said to me, then most of Glory probably knows about it by now.”
“Phil sounds like a stupid blowhard.”
Ann’s response was not what he expected. “Please don’t take my side in a battle you don’t understand,” she said. “You’ve never met Phil Meade. More important, you don’t know anything about me.”
Before he could reply, she went inside her house and closed the door without uttering another word.
Sean wondered what had gone wrong. Something he’d said had prompted Ann’s mysterious reaction. But for the life of him he couldn’t fathom what kind of verbal gaffe he’d committed. All he’d wanted to do was defend her.
One thing’s for sure, Miller. You have a magic touch with the ladies.
FIVE
Ann watched through the peephole in her front door. She felt an unexpected ache of sadness as Sean headed down her walk toward the street. Why had she cut him off so rudely? An answer popped into her mind: You like Sean Miller more than you’re willing to acknowledge.
“Don’t be silly,” she murmured. Her cell phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. She looked at her phone and saw “Church Manse.” Daniel Hartman was calling her from his home.
“Daniel! You’re back in Glory!”
“Lori and I spent last night in Norfolk,” he said. “We drove home first thing this morning.”
“I can’t tell you how happy I am to know that you’re only two blocks away from me.”
Ann felt a wave of relief wash over her. With her mother across the state, there’d been no one she could talk to, nowhere to go for advice. She knew that Daniel would listen to her tale of woe and help her find a way through the maze of difficulties.
“I’m happy to be home,” Daniel said.
“The senior pastor of Glory Community Church shouldn’t tell industrial-strength untruths. Everyone knows that Gilda ruined your honeymoon.”
“Cut short by a few days, perhaps, but definitely not ruined. Lori and I had a glorious time. Besides, we plan to spend the next several days shopping in Glory. It’ll be just like a honeymoon!”
“Shopping?”
“Lori starts her new job as one of Glory’s Finest in less than two weeks. She has a long list of items to buy before then, including stuff for the manse, police equipment, and dozens of personal purchases. I promised not to complain if—I mean when—she goes over budget.”
“Well, welcome back, Daniel. I won’t take any more of your precious time today,” she said.
“Not so fast. You’re forgetting that I called you.”
“No, I’m not. But you must be tired from all the traveling you did yesterday. And I’m sure that your new wife would like to spend a little quiet time with you.”
“It was my new wife who told me to call you, and ordered me to make sure that I talk to you about the damage to your house as well as your set-to with Phil Meade and the outrageous things he said to you.”
“You’ve heard about that.”
“Glory is a tight-knit little community. Sooner or later, local pastors hear about most things. In this case, it was sooner.”
“From a little birdie named Rafe Neilson,” Ann said.
“I’d rather not name names, but it wasn’t Rafe who brought me up-to-date.”
Ann felt an icy shiver creep along her spine. Daniel’s birdie must have been Phil Meade himself. Talking to Daniel was step one in fulfilling the threat that Phil had made to her.
Daniel reacted to her silence. “Ann, who cares about talkative birds? All that matters right now is you. Where are you?”
“In my kitchen. With empty ice-cream containers.”
“It’s the middle of the morning.”
“True. But I was up most of last night, thinking about Richard Squires and Phil Meade.”
“Do you have any ice cream left?”
“I finished the last of the chocolate about an hour ago.”
“P
ersevere! I’ll be there in ten minutes with additional supplies,” Daniel said.
“You’re coming here?”
“Unless you tell me you won’t open the door.”
She laughed. “Bring Rocky Road. And thank Lori as you leave.”
Ann felt a weight being lifted from her shoulders. Perhaps Daniel—a formidable ally—was on her side. And perhaps Phil would see the situation differently if Daniel was helping to make her case.
The cavalry has arrived, she thought. Well, not quite. Daniel didn’t ride a horse, but he had spent more than twenty years as a U.S. Army chaplain. He qualified as cavalry.
Ann opened the front door when she heard Daniel’s car in her driveway. He greeted her with a hug and an insulated paper bag. “I hope a half gallon is enough.”
“Barely,” she said, with as broad a grin as she could muster. She took a step backward so that she could look at him. He seemed relaxed and happy. No surprise there—he was a newlywed who’d just returned from his honeymoon.
“Follow me to the kitchen table. There’s work to be done.” She slipped the carton of ice cream out of the bag, serving them each double scoops of Rocky Road in dessert bowls.
Daniel rested his elbows on the table. “You took on a huge responsibility on Monday night, Ann. The elders are grateful for your courageous decision to remain on duty inside the church.”
She shook her head. “They won’t feel that way after Phil Meade talks to them. He blames me for Richard Squires’s death.”
“Well, he blames you for calling Richard to the church unnecessarily, as he puts it.”
“Did another birdie tell you that?” Ann asked, trying to smile.
“You have a right to know that that came directly from the horse’s mouth.”
“Did Phil also tell you that he chewed me out yesterday?”
Daniel nodded. “Proudly. Although he admitted that you are a tough nut to crack.”
For a brief moment, Ann wondered if Phil would be able to change Daniel’s mind about her. After all, Phil was a dynamic and impressive person, a force to be reckoned with in Glory. She quickly dismissed the notion. Daniel wasn’t the sort of man who wavered. He stood solidly in her corner.
