Gone To Glory. Ron/Janet Benrey

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 Sound, there would be no one on duty at night at The Scottish Captain. No one to admit late arrivals or guests who’d lost their keys. No one to call in case of an emergency. No one to provide an extra blanket or pillow or towel to a guest who needed one.

      And Emma had no choice but to move: the Captain’s third-floor owner’s apartment was simply too small to accommodate three people—especially when one of them was a lively teenager. Kate, Rafe’s fifteen-year-old daughter had her own bedroom—and her own bathroom—in the charming blue-clapboard Victorian bungalow on Front Street that Rafe owned.

      Christine had checked into the Captain a month before the wedding, told Emma she was in the process of moving to Glory, and asked where she might find an apartment in town. Emma quickly offered her the Captain’s owners’ apartment at a remarkably low rent—with one stipulation. “You’ll be the Captain’s night manager,” she’d explained. “Your duties will be simple. Help the guests when I’m not here.”

      Christine agreed immediately—and had proven to be ideal for the job.

      Emma lifted the cooked sandwiches from the skillet and joined Rafe at the table. “Do we need to say thanks again?” she asked.

      Rafe began with a big smile. “Thank You, God, for grilled-cheese-and-tomato sandwiches, and for not requiring that we eat Southern Fried Thai Chicken. Amen.”

      Rafe took a bite of his sandwich. “Perfection!”

      “I agree. We should frame these sandwiches rather than eat them.”

      “Speaking of frames…” Rafe said. “Tell me about the fifth guest—the gal from Chicago who’s driving a blue rental. The one who wants to be a travel photographer. Is that why she spent the morning driving around Glory?”

      Emma nodded. “She’s assembling a portfolio of photos of the Albemarle region.”

      “I’ll tell Angie Ringgold that she’s not a master criminal. Angie was on patrol this morning. She saw the rental car looping back and forth through Glory. She said that she followed the car down Main Street at least five times. Angie really got suspicious when she saw it slow down in front of the bank.”

      “Did she intercept the driver?”

      “Angie was about to stop her car, but then it surprised her and drove to the Captain. The driver went inside and came out carrying a bunch of camera gear. Angie last saw her taking a picture of Moira McGregor in Founders Park.”

      “Poor Angie.” Emma laughed. “For your information, the lady’s name is Lori Dorsett. She’s from Chicago. I don’t know much about her, except that she was divorced last year and is trying to launch a new career as a travel photographer. She plans to stay in Glory for a month or so and take a lot of pictures.”

      Rafe took another bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a gulp of spiced iced tea. “Angie told me that the gal is a real looker—is that true?”

      “I wouldn’t know,” Emma said airily.

      “Wow! She must be gorgeous.”

      Emma balled up her napkin and threw it at Rafe’s head.

      It had been a snap decision—but an inspired one, Lori thought—to tell Reverend Hartman that she wanted to take pictures of the stained-glass windows from outside the church. Now she was perfectly positioned on the church’s lawn, adjacent to King Street, to listen in on the meeting in the pastor’s office.

      Lori reached deep