Ron/Janet Benrey - Glory Be!

“So you chose a low-stress career-police work,” Emma said.

“It’s a different kind of stress,” Rafe said with a smile. “Glory’s mystery prankster, for example-I wish we had more leads.”

Emma stopped, standing under a streetlight on Water Street. “Well,” she said, “there’s one lead we haven’t considered yet.”

To Rafe’s surprise, Emma’s “we” sounded perfectly appropriate.

“There’s some sort of deeper connection between the latest prank and my bed-and-breakfast,” she said.

Ron and Janet Benrey began writing romantic cozy mysteries together more than ten years ago—chiefly because they both loved to read them. Their successful collaboration surprised them both, because they have remarkably different backgrounds.

Ron holds degrees in engineering, management and law. He built a successful career as a nonfiction writer specializing in speechwriting and other aspects of business writing. Janet was an entrepreneur before she earned a degree in communications, working in fields such as professional photography, executive recruiting and sporting-goods marketing.

How do they write together and still stay married? That’s the question that readers ask most. The answer is that they’ve developed a process for writing novels that makes optimum use of their individual talents. Perhaps even more important, their love for cozy mysteries transcends the inevitable squabbles that occur when they’re writing.

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Rejoice in the Lord always.

I will say it again: Rejoice!

Let your gentleness be evident to all.

The Lord is near.

—Philippians 4:4–5

For Collette and Craig Crandall.

Welcome to Glory!

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

“What’s wrong with this picture?” Emma McCall muttered, as she plunged her hands into a mound of croissant dough. “It’s pitch-black outside and I’m up to my elbows in flour.”

Emma was the sole proprietor of The Scottish Captain, a bed-and-breakfast in Glory, North Carolina. Some days, though, the Captain seemed to own her. Today was a perfect example. She had risen at 4:00 a.m. because Calvin Constable, her breakfast chef, had taken a well-earned day off. That left Emma on her own to prepare this morning’s breakfast, until Peggy Lyons, her housekeeper, arrived at six.

Emma glanced at the wall clock in the kitchen. Ten to six. If Peggy came on time—and if nothing went wrong—they would finish with ten minutes to spare. Just enough time to strip off her scruffy T-shirt and faded blue jeans and slip into one of her chic hostess outfits. Today she might go for the tailored suit in a shade of tan that went well with her dark brown hair.

The Captain had six guest rooms and could accommodate a maximum of eighteen guests in a pinch, although off-season bookings rarely exceeded half a dozen. On this, the first Wednesday in November, Emma had to prepare breakfast for five people.

The centerpiece dish would be Eggs Sardou, a classic New Orleans concoction of poached eggs served on artichokes with spinach and hollandaise sauce. She would also offer a selection of imported bacon and sausages, hot croissants, fresh-squeezed orange juice and her “signature” gingered fruit compote. And, of course, coffee and brewed tea.

Emma had decided to serve an elaborate breakfast because three of her guests were New England travel writers, part of a contingent on a pre-winter junket through North Carolina. Their favorable recommendations might bring flocks of northern “snowbirds” to The Scottish Captain as they traveled south. The other two guests—a couple who hailed from Maryland—also had influence. He was a prominent Washington attorney, she an evening news anchor on a Baltimore TV station.

Emma had just begun to shape croissants on a large buttered pan when Peggy Lyons burst into the kitchen and shouted, “There’s a bug on the porch.”

Emma willed herself not to scream at Peggy. She had seen this same panic-stricken look on her housekeeper’s face many times before. Peggy was a fine worker but easily flustered by minor problems. Emma unstuck her fingers from the slick, buttery dough.

“Tromp on the bug, Peggy,” she said, evenly. “Whap it with a newspaper, spray it with insecticide, or catch it in ajar. Pick one of the above, but do it quickly. I need your help.”

“You don’t understand, Emma. There’s a Bug on the porch. A car! A silver Volkswagen Beetle convertible.”

Rafe Neilson fumbled for his cell phone in the dark. He knew without looking at the glowing Caller ID display that Angie Ringgold needed his advice. Angie—a newcomer to the department—was the only police officer on duty in Glory, North Carolina, that morning.

“Good morning, Angie,” he said sleepily.

“I’m sorry to call so early, Rafe, but someone pulled a weird prank on Broad Street. There’s a Volkswagen Beetle sitting on The Scottish Captain’s front porch.”

“A prank?” He cleared his throat. “When did it become a police matter?”

“The Captain’s owner dialed 911. She wants the responsible party arrested and I don’t know what to tell her. Is moving a car to a porch a crime? And, if so, what kind of crime? The curriculum at the Police Academy stopped short of practical jokes.”

Rafe peered at his clock—6:20 a.m. “Do you know who did the deed?”

“Sort of—but not exactly.”

“What does ‘sort of’ mean?”

“There was a note tucked under the windshield wiper. I’ll read it to you. ‘Dear Emma. Your lack of support for enhancing the contemporary service really bugs us. Please reconsider your position.’ The note is signed ‘The Phantom Avenger.’”

Rafe thought about the message for a moment then groaned softly.

“See what I mean?” Angie said. “Sort of—but not exactly.”

“I’ll be there in three minutes.”

Rafe slipped into his khaki trousers, tugged on a warm sweatshirt and grabbed his nylon windbreaker. He’d worry about his police uniform later.

Outside, he fired up his Corvette—taking a moment to enjoy its throaty exhaust growl. Rafe’s ’Vette was a 1978 model, candy-apple-red, a classic that he had lovingly restored and now kept in perfect operating condition.

Rafe’s house on Front Street was five blocks from The Scottish Captain. He kept the ’Vette in second gear for the short drive. He parked across the street and took a moment to contemplate the front of the Captain in the flattering light of an unclouded sunrise.