Ron/Janet Benrey - Glory Be!

“Three weekends?

“I understand—it’s a worthy cause. But three weekends represents an enormous sum….

“Very well—three weekends….

“We’ll be ready when you are….

“Fine. I’ll expect you in twenty minutes!”

Rafe swallowed a grin. Tom Yeager was a tough man to best in a bargain. Emma hooked the phone on her belt; she made no effort to hide her annoyance. “Do I have to explain the expensive negotiation you just overheard?” she asked.

“You rented our high school football team at a cost of three complimentary weekends.”

“Whoever pulled this stunt cost me a small fortune. I’d sure love to see the perpetrators in handcuffs by the end of the day.”

“You just hired the…ah…perpetrators to move the car off the porch.”

“I what?”

“This is a small town. We don’t have multiple collections of guys who are strong enough—and foolish enough—to tote a Volkswagen around.”

“Rats! Why didn’t I think of that before I made the deal?”

“The Glory Gremlins start football practice at 6:00 a.m. on Wednesday mornings. If some of them were inclined to move a car…”

“The team could do it on the way to the high school.” Emma looked at Rafe with a confused frown. “But why me? I’ve never done anything to them.”

“You read the note. Several of those kids are members of Glory Community Church.”

“I read it, but it made no sense. I have absolutely nothing to do with the contemporary service at church.”

Rafe tried not to show the astonishment he felt. Did Emma live in an isolation bubble? Her very lack of involvement with the contemporary service made her a target. Emma had been a member of the church for nearly a year. How could she be so oblivious to the ongoing turmoil at Glory Community?

A toilet flushed somewhere overhead. Emma jumped. “Oh, boy! My guests are getting up. I have to finish breakfast. Get out of my kitchen. Now!”

Rafe chose not to argue. He left without further comment and retraced the flagstone path to the front of the Captain, where a tall, big-bellied man in a blue, hooded sweatshirt was standing on the front lawn gazing up at the silver Beetle. His carefully trimmed gray beard made a perfect frame for the delighted smile on his face. As Rafe approached, the man said, “Tradition is a beautiful thing. I helped pull the same stunt forty years ago at the University of Maine. Of course, Volkswagen cars were smaller back then. We needed only a dozen seniors to carry a black Beetle to the chancellor’s terrace. He…was…frosted!”

“Are you a guest at The Scottish Captain?” Rafe asked.

The man nodded. “The North Carolina Department of Tourism is shuttling a dozen travel writers around the state. Three of us are at the Captain, but I’m the only early riser. I was going for a prebreakfast walk around Glory, but a levitated Volkswagen seems so much more interesting. I wonder if we’re witnessing the start of a new trend—the rediscovery of a decades-old practical joke?”

“Did you happen to see who did it?”

The man’s smile didn’t waver. “Elves. A giant flock of wee Scottish elves. Or possibly wood sprites. It’s so hard to tell the difference—Officer.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“The black notebook clutched in your hand gave you away. I used to cover the rural police beat for the Daily Herald in Portland, Maine. Small-town cops look alike.”

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.

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.”