by Ron Benrey
“I’m beginning to think so, too,” Ann said, sneaking a peek at Sean as he ate.
“Take as much time as you need. I’ll put out a call for volunteers to help with the routine administrative details.”
She thanked him and ended the call.
“You have a strangely faraway smile on your face,” Sean said.
“Daniel Hartman is an awe-inspiring person. And the best, most understanding boss I’ve ever had. You’ll have to meet him sometime, Sean.”
She ate as much of her SOGgy Burger as she could manage. When they’d both finished, she said, “Sean, can I ask you a question?”
“Uh, sure.” He nodded stiffly, amplifying the deer-in-the-headlights gaze that delivered a contrary answer.
Ann decided to press on. “I’ve been pondering—why are you so keen to help me?” Without thinking it through, she added, “What’s in it for you?”
Sean’s clear brown eyes seemed to double in size. “Wow! You called me cynical today, but you’re the East Coast distributor of cynicism.” His face filled with disappointment. “How can you ask me that?”
Ann squirmed at her own tactlessness. “That came out wrong. I didn’t mean to insult you or question your sincerity. I’m grateful for your help, but I don’t understand why you put yourself on my team. Why take a risk—and maybe endanger your life—for someone you met two days ago, especially when you plan to leave in two more days?” She leaned forward and touched his hand. “I’m confident that you don’t have the same short-term game plan as CarloVaughn.”
She’d hoped that her combined apology and clarification would calm his obvious annoyance, but all it accomplished was to magnify the miffed scowl that dominated his expression.
He paused several seconds to frame his reply. “I admire you and I dislike Phil Meade. Let’s leave it at that.”
Ann struggled to find a graceful way out of the awkward situation she’d created, but in the end she settled on saying nothing more. Once again, she’d spoken words to Sean that she wished she could withdraw. What could explain this? Certainly not her anxiety about Phil Meade. If that were the root cause, she’d have this issue with everyone, but the problem seemed limited to Sean. Why would that be?
No doubt about it—I need to do some heavy-duty thinking about my feelings for Sean Miller.
Sean stared through the windshield, knowing that if he looked at Ann he might yell at her. True, she’d apologized for her hurtful question. But he needed more time to cool down—and fully forgiving her thoughtless words would take even more time.
“Where are we?” he asked.
“Approaching Albemarle Sound, about to turn south on Front Street.” She sniffed the air. “What’s that rank smell?”
“The unmistakable odor of flooded house,” he replied. “The owners have begun to clear away water-damaged furnishings.”
“You’re right. Look!”
Sean saw piles of waterlogged carpet and water-soaked furniture stacked at the ends of driveways. The windows of the affected houses were wide open and, at several, engine-powered blowers were chugging away, ventilating crawl spaces.
“Oh, my goodness!” Ann stopped unexpectedly in front of a blue clapboard Victorian bungalow. “This is where Rafe and Emma live. It used to be the prettiest house in Glory.”
“It will be again once the gingerbread trim is replaced. That kind of wind damage is easy to fix. The most serious harm was caused by the storm surge. I’m guessing a mini-tsunami rolled up the embankment, punched through the front door and windows, and probably took out most of the first floor.”
“Poor Rafe. We bent his ear about my troubles when he has all of this on his mind. Now I feel like a jerk,” Ann said.
“Would you like a second opinion about that?”
She laughed. “Are you still mad at me?”
“Not as much as I was a minute ago. It’s hard to stay angry about a few ill-chosen words when Rafe manages to be gracious to the likes of us while dealing with this mess.”
She accelerated away from the curb. “Squires’ Place is on Main Street, next to the Bank of Glory.”
“That’s near the heart of downtown Glory?”
“Yup. It’s been there for more than forty years.”
“There it is,” Sean said, as soon as Ann turned west on Main Street. “There’s even a parking spot out front.”
“There’s also a Closed sign hanging in the front door. We’ve met our first detecting challenge.”
“Let’s see what’s going on. One of us should read all the writing on the sign.”
“That would be you,” she said. “I’ll keep the engine running.”
The two structures on the block—the Bank of Glory and Squires’ Place—were both substantial stone-faced buildings that must have been built at the same time. Sean walked quickly to Squires’ Place as if hurrying would make the restaurant less closed.
He read the small print on the sign: “Squires’ Place will remain closed out of respect for Richard Squires until after his funeral on Friday. We will reopen on Saturday at 5:00 p.m. for dinner.”
He looked around. Perhaps someone had posted an In an emergency, call…notice. No joy. He cupped his hands around his face and peered through the front window.
He jogged back to Ann’s car. “We may not have to rethink our strategy,” he said. “I saw a light in back and shadows moving. There’s someone in the restaurant after all.”
“Is there a rear entrance?”
“I think so. Trucks probably don’t deliver to the front door.”
“How do we find it?”
“Start driving around the block.”
The only alley on Front Street served the Bank of Glory, but one of the two alleys on Campbell Street led to the rear of Squires’ Place, and a stoutly made steel door.
Sean rang the doorbell. He heard footsteps approaching and stepped back in anticipation. The door swung open, revealing a slender, tall and attractive woman he guessed to be in her late forties. She had reddish-blond hair piled high on her head and big brown eyes accented by heavy eye makeup.
“Oh,” Ann said, behind him. “Sheila…” Ann hesitated. “I’m sorry, but I’ve forgotten your last name.”
“Sheila Parker,” the woman replied. “I have a terrible memory for names, too. You’re Ann somebody from the church.”
“Ann Trask.” She moved in front of Sean and extended her hand.
“It’s all coming back,” Sheila said. “The last time we worshipped at Glory Community, Richard mentioned that you were the new church administrator.”
“And I remember you,” Ann said. “You accompanied Richard on several Sundays as a visitor.”
“I loved to hear Richard sing. He had a beautiful voice. I could pick him out from the rest of the choir.”
“Can we talk to you about Richard?”
“Absolutely! I prayed that someone from the church would finally contact me, and here you are.” She stepped back from the door and moved into a corridor that, Sean presumed, led deeper into the restaurant. “Please, come inside. We’ll be more comfortable in Richard’s office.”
“Uh…thank you,” Ann said with a hesitant stammer. Sean guessed that Ann didn’t know what Sheila wished to talk about or why she might want someone from Glory Community to contact her.
Ann stopped short, causing Sean to bump into her. “Forgive my manners,” she said to Sheila. “Let me introduce Sean Miller. Sean is visiting Glory this week and has offered to help me resolve a few problems. Do you mind if he listens while we chat?”
The woman broke into a pained grimace that Sean found disconcerting. “Certainly not, dear. Now that Richard is dead, I have no secrets anymore. It’s high time that everyone in Glory knew the truth about our relationship.”
Ann glanced at him over her shoulder. The puzzled look on her face spoke volumes.
They followed Sheila into the restaurant’s spacious interior. The walls were paneled with wood planking alternately painted
bright white and dazzling red. Sean estimated the main dining room could seat 150 people—in four-and six-person booths that lined the walls and at several dozen square wooden tables, also painted white and trimmed with red. The chairs and the booth benches were upholstered in shiny red vinyl that echoed the trim color. “This is what it would feel like,” Sean muttered, “to live inside a candy cane.”
Several framed posters on the wall reiterated the red-and-white theme. Bright red crockery sitting on stark white counters displayed Squires’ Place’s colorful dishes. Signs on the wall above the counters served as menus.
Red-Bowl Cheesy Shrimp and Grits—the Dish that Made Squires’ Place Famous
Red-Bowl Grits and Red-Eye Gravy—Better than Your Momma Served You
Red-Bowl Grits—No One on Earth Serves Better Grits (We’re Sure We Have the Angels Beat, Too)
Red-Bowl Sausage Grits—Yummy in the Tummy! Accept no Substitutes!
A large sign above the swinging door to the kitchen proclaimed, Grits and Glory: Made for Each Other.
Sheila led them down a corridor, past the Gritty Guy’s Room, to a door marked Private.
“This is Richard’s office,” she said. “Don’t mind the mess. Untidiness was his only failing, but he managed to find anything he needed.”
She opened the door and flipped a light switch, revealing a good-size office furnished with a large wooden desk, a credenza, several bookcases, an overstuffed sofa and three ancient-looking recliners.
Sean studied the large watercolor on the wall behind the sofa. A rather amateurish artist had painted a curiously distorted view of the interior of Squires’ Place.
“Ah. You’ve noticed the painting,” Sheila said. “Richard loved it. His daughter Erin painted it fifteen years ago.”
“Charming,” Sean said.
The “mess” that Sheila had warned them about was a vast pile of paper on Richard’s desk. There must have been hundreds of file folders, paper documents and brochures in ten different stacks. Sean grinned at the muddle; his desk was often just as cluttered.
Sheila pointed toward a corner. “That door leads to a file room, but Richard rarely took the time to file anything. Most of his filing cabinets are half-full. Sit anywhere you like,” Sheila said. She sat in one of the visitor’s chairs placed next to Richard’s desk. Ann made for the plush sofa and Sean sat next to her.
“What a lovely photo,” Ann said, picking up a shiny silver frame that perched on the end table next to the sofa.
“Isn’t it,” Sheila agreed. “Richard and I went on Glory Community’s trip to the Outer Banks in July.”
“And such a beautiful frame.” She handed it to Sean.
Sean studied the photo. The well-composed eight-by-ten showed Richard and Sheila happily holding hands, standing in front of a sand dune, a lighthouse in the distance. Sean realized that this was the first good picture of Richard he’d seen. The anonymous photographer had captured the enthusiasm that Sean kept hearing about, and the love of life. Conversely, the grainy image that the Glory Gazette had published made Richard look old and tired—a man bored with the world.
“I didn’t know that you were more than close friends,” Ann said.
“It shows in that photo, doesn’t it?” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed an eye.
Ann nodded; Sheila continued. “Richard wanted to marry me, but we never told anyone about our relationship.”
“You were engaged?” Ann said.
“Not quite. He’d asked, but I hadn’t accepted. I insisted that we be sensible.”
“I’m not sure I understand,” Ann said.
“Richard was twenty years older than me. He was a successful businessman, I was one of his employees, the hostess in his restaurant. I feared what would happen if we announced our engagement too quickly. I knew that some might see me as a gold digger.”
Sean wasn’t surprised by her concerns. A town the size of Glory would have its share of gossips willing to believe that a good-looking hostess had led Richard down the garden path.
Sheila continued, “I insisted that we move slowly, let people see us together, give them a chance to know me and to discover how much we loved each other.” She dried her eyes again. “I was also concerned about how his grown children would feel, having a stepmother so much younger than their father. We planned to travel to Texas early in the new year and tell them in person.”
Ann jumped in. “I know that Pastor Hartman has spoken with Richard’s children. They’ve arranged the details of the funeral.”
“I don’t want to be pushy,” Sheila said, “but I have information to contribute. Richard talked about his wishes with me.” She waved her hands, as if to erase what she’d just said. “We didn’t talk about the kind of funeral he wanted, but about the hymns he wanted sung. He joked about it. He said that without him singing, there were only three hymns the choir could perform well.”
“That’s an easy issue to resolve,” Ann said. “I’ll ask Nina McEwen, our choral director, to call you. You and she can work out which hymns the choir will sing on Friday.”
“That would be wonderful, dear.” Sheila started to smile but then began to weep. “Oh, how I wish we’d been less sensible,” she said between sobs. “If we’d married like he wanted to, Richard might have gone to Rocky Mount with me on the night he…” Sheila couldn’t continue for a moment.
Ann waited for her to regain herself and then asked, “When did you meet Richard?”
“Shortly after I moved to Glory,” Sheila said. “That would be about six months ago. Richard needed a hostess, I needed a job. He often said the timing was providential—clearly God driven.”
Sean was about to ask where she’d moved from, but Sheila told the story without further prompting.
“I used to live in York, Pennsylvania. Last winter was a particularly snowy one, and I was becoming tired of the cold. I read about Glory in my dentist’s waiting room. Southern Living Magazine had a lovely article about the town. The pictures I saw of Glory intrigued me and my first visit sold me on the town. It’s pretty, charming and delightfully Southern, but in a way that doesn’t overwhelm a Northerner like me. I knew that Glory would be a great place to live within minutes of driving past the welcome sign.”
“How brave,” Ann said. “I’m not sure I’d have the courage to make a decision like that.”
Sheila beamed, thrilled by Ann’s compliment. “My husband died five years ago. It took me all that time to find the guts to leave York. After all, my friends were there, I had a good job and I felt secure.” She smiled again. “But I truly believe, as did Richard, that God wanted me in North Carolina. So here I am.”
“What will you do now, Sheila?” Sean asked. “Will you stay in Glory?”
Sheila shrugged. “I don’t know, but it’s the question I ask every time I pray. Richard wasn’t sure whether he would continue to live in Glory, actually. We talked about moving closer to the ocean, possibly to Manteo or Beaufort.”
“Richard thought about leaving Glory?” Ann’s voice proclaimed her surprise.
“It wasn’t definite,” Sheila said. “He liked to daydream about the different things he could do after he sold Squires’ Place.”
“That’s something else I hadn’t heard,” Ann said, glancing at Sean.
“Of course you didn’t. Mr. Hayden swore Richard to secrecy for business reasons. He would be furious if he knew that Richard had told me the little he did. But now, it doesn’t matter. The deal is off because Richard’s dead.”
“Who is Mr. Hayden?” Ann asked.
“An urban developer. Didn’t I say?” Sheila answered.
“Did he intend to buy Squires’ Place?” Sean asked.
“Yes, but not to run as a restaurant. Mr. Hayden is some sort of urban developer. As near as I could understand, he planned to tear down this building and build a new office complex. But I don’t know any of the details.”
“Is Mr. Hayden based in Glory?”
&n
bsp; “No. He’s from Norfolk, Virginia, as I recall.” Sheila dabbed at her eyes again.
“Thank you for talking to us, Sheila,” Ann said. “We’ve taken up enough of your time. And if I don’t get back to the church in five minutes, Pastor Hartman will turn me into a pumpkin.”
Sean pushed himself out of the sofa’s deep cushions and helped to pull Ann free.
“I’ll make sure that Nina McEwen calls you,” she said. They said their goodbyes to Sheila, and Sean followed Ann to her car.
“We’re making progress,” he said, “I smell a possible motive. Look around—Squires’ Place is sitting on prime Glory real estate. The land Richard owned is too valuable to use as the site of a restaurant. Had the deal gone through, Richard would suddenly have been a wealthy man. Money can generate a gazillion reasons to kill someone.”
“I agree, but the deal hadn’t gone through. Now his kids will inherit the property. Why kill Richard before he becomes rich?”
“First things first—we need to talk to this Hayden guy as soon as we can.” He clicked his seat belt and Ann started the engine. “By the way, what did you think of Sheila Parker?”
“I get suspicious of anyone who calls me ‘dear.’”
“I’ll take that under advisement,” Sean said.
Ann laughed. He felt his face getting red and hoped that she wouldn’t notice.
EIGHT
The streetlamps on Broad Street flickered off as Ann stood on the sidewalk outside the Scottish Captain, waiting for Sean to emerge. She felt a fresh stab of guilt at the thought that Sean was about to make yet another sacrifice for her.
Somewhere deep inside the B and B, Emma Neilson and her breakfast chef were hard at work preparing one of the finest breakfasts in the Carolinas. Alas, Sean would miss breakfast so that he could accompany her on a visit to Mr. Hayden.
After they’d left Squires’ Place the previous afternoon, Sean had gone online to locate the Hayden Development Corporation in Norfolk. Miles Hayden, its president, agreed to meet with Sean and Ann at 8:45 a.m. the next morning. “Any later is impossible,” Hayden had said, “because of my pressing schedule.” They would need to be on the road by 6:45 a.m.—long before the Scottish Captain began serving breakfast.
