Grits and Glory

by Ron Benrey

  Praise the Lord for that.

  A new worry tore through her mind and generated an even sharper chill. Would Daniel remain supportive if he learned her whole story? The information about her past was out there—anyone who entered her name in an Internet search engine would learn most of her history in a few seconds. Two or three phone calls would fill in the rest. Maybe now was a good time to tell Daniel what had happened seven years ago.

  No. He doesn’t need more to worry about right now.

  She ate a spoonful of ice cream and then asked, “Do you think I called Richard to the church unnecessarily?”

  “The only person who can answer that question is you.”

  “But that doesn’t stop people from speculating and telling me what they think.”

  “Ah. You’ve had phone calls?”

  “Two. One woman said I was an inspiration to every female in Glory because I had the courage to stay in town during the storm. Another woman told me I was stupid and that Richard Squires would still be alive if someone who knew how to fix generators had been in charge of the emergency shelter.”

  “Oh, dear. Did you recognize their voices?”

  “’Fraid not. Does it matter?”

  “Not unless they’re members of the church. Taking sides in a situation like this can drive a wedge through a congregation. The first chance I get, I’ll point out to our members that the church steeple, which was built nearly ninety years ago, survived several other strong storms. No one but God could know that Gilda would blow it into the parking lot. And that includes Ann Trask, intrepid church administrator.”

  “Thank you, Daniel.”

  He added, “People also need to be reminded that Richard put himself in charge of our emergency generator. He’d have been furious if you hadn’t called him to repair it.”

  “That’s what I thought, too.” Ann sighed. “But Phil insists that Richard came out during the storm only because of me, and that he didn’t want to leave the command center.”

  Daniel reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. He’d obviously heard this part of the story, too. “Can’t you guess why Rafe didn’t argue with Phil when he said that?”

  “I haven’t a clue.”

  “Rafe knew that Phil was upset. He didn’t want to fight with him minutes after Richard’s body had been taken away.”

  Ann smiled. “I know the name Daniel means ‘the Lord is my judge.’ But you’re not the least bit judgmental. I should start calling you Peter, because you’re my rock. I feel better now—and that’s not just the ice cream talking. Thank you.”

  “On that note, I feel a prayer coming on.”

  Ann closed her eyes and bowed her head.

  “Heavenly Father,” Daniel began, “I thank You this glorious Wednesday morning—a reminder that all storms eventually come to an end. I thank You also for sending Ann Trask to Glory Community Church. I ask You to comfort Ann, to sustain her, and to equip her to serve You. Give her the wisdom to do what is right in Your eyes, and the strength to look beyond unfair criticisms offered by confused but well-intentioned people. I ask these things in Jesus’ name. Amen.”

  Daniel and Ann stood up from the table, and he pulled her into a hug. “I’d better go see how much money Lori’s spent in my absence. By the way, when Lori and I got home, we were delighted to find the manse ready for our return. I’m astonished that you thought about us with so much going on. God bless you, Ann.”

  Ann decided to stay put in the kitchen. If she walked Daniel to the door, she might start crying, which would embarrass both of them.

  “Give my love to Lori,” she managed to say without her voice cracking.

  “I hope I’m not making another mistake,” Sean muttered as he climbed the steps to Ann Trask’s front porch. He’d arrived just as a tall, distinguished-looking man with a thick head of reddish brown hair had left the house and driven away.

  “Who could that have been?” he asked himself, feeling an unpleasant twinge of jealousy.

  How can I be jealous of other men? Ann wants nothing to do with me.

  He murmured the Doxology to buttress his courage and knocked softly on the front door.

  “I’ll be right there.” Ann spoke from somewhere deep inside the house.

  “Take your time,” Sean said, before he could stop himself. Sheesh! That sounded stupid.

  The door opened.

  “Sean Miller!” Ann exclaimed.

  “Ann Trask!” he mimicked. “I hope you don’t mind me showing up unannounced for the second time this morning. I was in the neighborhood and decided to drop by.”

  “I don’t mind. I promise I’ll do my best not to slam the door in your face this time.”

  “I figure that was mostly my fault. You didn’t need an unexpected visitor, what with all you went through yesterday and a tree poking through the roof of your garage.”

  She joined him on the porch and gestured toward two side-by-side Adirondack chairs. Sean sat in one; Ann took the other. He risked a direct look at her face. She seemed in a good mood, and not especially upset to see him.

  “I talked with my brother about the tree,” she said. “He checked with our insurance company, and we’re covered for wind damage. He arranged to have a contractor repair the roof.”

  As she talked, her fingers played with a bright blue almond-shaped object that dangled from a lanyard around her neck. Sean wondered if it performed a function or was merely decorative.

  “That’s splendid news,” Sean said, smiling at her and—hooray!—she smiled back. A pretty smile that lit up her face.

  Stop staring at her. She’ll think you’re a dunce.

  “So, Sean, what brought you to Queen Street?”

  “I had to meet with Tucker Mackenzie at the Glory Garage. It seems the steeple did more damage to our broadcast van than anyone realized at first.”

  “When will you leave Glory?” she asked.

  “Friday at the earliest. When the van is roadworthy, I’ll drive it back to Long Island. Carlo may also be ready for a new assignment by then. He’ll fly home.”

  She nodded. “‘Storms come, storms go. We follow the storms.’”

  “I hate that harebrained slogan. I want to predict storms, not follow them,” Sean said.

  “It must be interesting to spend so much time on the move.”

  “The truth is it gets stale quickly. I look forward to living a settled life after I finish paying for my education.”

  Stop the small talk. Get to the point.

  “Ann, I had to deal with the Glory Garage, but I also wanted to talk to you about something that’s been on my mind since yesterday. It kept me wide awake most of the night.”

  “There’s a lot of that going around. What’s up?”

  “I had a weird thought about the night that Gilda arrived in Glory.”

  “How weird?”

  “Weird enough to ask that you don’t say I’m crazy until after I finish explaining my notion,” Sean said.

  She shrugged. “This is my weird morning. I’ve eaten enough chocolate ice cream to cater a kid’s birthday party and it’s not even noon. I’m not sure you can tell me anything more bizarre than that.”

  “Wanna bet? Okay, I’ll spit it out. I don’t think Richard Squires’s death was an accident. In fact, I’m sure that it wasn’t. The falling steeple didn’t kill him.”

  “Not an accident? What are you suggesting?” She caught her breath. “If the falling steeple didn’t kill Richard—”

  He finished the sentence she’d begun. “Something else killed him. More likely, someone else did.”

  “But that’s…that’s murder.”

  “Cold-blooded murder.”

  “I won’t say you’re crazy, Sean, but lack of sleep has clearly muddled your brain. Everyone in Glory loved Richard Squires. Why would anyone murder him?”

  “I went to the library this morning and browsed through a textbook on criminal investigation. Detectives look for three things when
they try to solve a murder—motive, means and opportunity. When it comes to Richard Squires, I’m still hazy about motive, but I’ve begun to zero in on means and opportunity.”

  “I take it back,” Ann said. “You are crazy.”

  “Give me another minute, and I’ll prove to you I’m not.”

  Ann didn’t say anything, which Sean took as an invitation to carry on.

  “Three things about Richard’s death are suspicious and suggest that he wasn’t the victim of a freak accident. First, Richard finished working on the generator at the point of highest wind and greatest rainfall. But he didn’t walk directly from the church to his car. For some reason, he took a detour past our broadcast van. That makes no sense at all.”

  Ann pictured the church’s parking lot during Gilda. Sean was right. Richard’s car was parked in the rear of the lot and the van in the middle, much closer to the church’s side door. Why would Richard detour past the van during a hurricane?

  “Richard liked technology,” Ann suggested. “Perhaps he wanted to check out your van and the satellite antenna on the roof.”

  “Possibly, but what kind of view could he have had? The rain would have pummeled his face if he looked up.”

  “Good point,” Ann admitted. “What’s the second suspicious thing?”

  “The falling wreckage would have hit Richard from behind. There’s no way he could have landed on his back, stretched out, face up, with his boots pointing at the sky.” Sean reached into his jacket pocket. “Here’s yesterday’s Glory Gazette. You saw the scene for real before the photographer took this picture.”

  Ann turned away. Sean understood her reluctance. She didn’t need to see a photograph of Richard Squires under the fallen steeple. The grim image was undoubtedly etched in her mind.

  Sean put the paper away and continued. “Richard should have fallen forward in a heap or crumpled to one side. Think about it.”

  “I don’t know enough about falling wreckage to decide one way or the other.”

  “Well, I do know. I’ve studied the aftermaths of dozens of hurricanes. The victims don’t look like someone went to the trouble of arranging their bodies neatly under piles of broken boards.”

  “Okay, what’s the third suspicious thing?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry to bring this up, but if a falling steeple the size of a small house had actually hit Richard, there would have been lots more damage to his face and head. I woke up inside the ambulance. The interior lights were on and I saw Richard’s face. I noticed a few scratches, but no significant injuries.”

  He watched Ann shudder. “I get the idea,” she said, taking several calming breaths.

  “Let’s move on to the bottom line. Someone in Glory wanted Richard Squires dead, and that same someone used Gilda as a cover for murder. All of which means that your telephone call had absolutely nothing to do with Richard’s death. He would have died even if the generator had kept running when we started it.”

  Ann pursed her lips. “Sean, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but your theory—if that’s what it is—has a zillion flaws. I’ve never read a criminal investigation textbook, but my mother and I love to read murder mysteries.” She began to count on her fingers.

  “First, Richard was an all-around nice guy. He’d lived in Glory forever and had a million friends and no enemies. I can’t think of a single person who’d want him dead. You’ll never find a motive to kill Richard, because there isn’t one.

  “Second, this is a quiet little town. I can’t imagine anyone in Glory being devious enough to use a hurricane to camouflage a murder.

  “Third, Glory had been evacuated. There were only a handful of people left in town that evening—police officers, firefighters, medical personnel and the folks manning the emergency command center. Are you suggesting that one of them killed Richard?”

  Sean started to answer her but Ann kept going.

  “Fourth, there’s probably a simple explanation for the route Richard took through the parking lot. Maybe he became disoriented by the dark, the wind and the rain.

  “Fifth, Rafe Neilson and his colleagues aren’t stupid. They saw Richard’s body. If there were something wrong with its location or the amount of damage, Rafe would have spotted the inconsistencies.

  “Sixth…” She hesitated, then frowned. “Your idea is wacky from top to bottom.” Ann drew her arms around herself. “No one in Glory will believe that someone murdered Richard Squires. Starting with me.”

  “Then perhaps I should share my idea with Rafe Neilson, and possibly even Phil Meade?”

  Her smile returned. “Rafe will listen politely and then ignore you, but Phil Meade will almost certainly turn the air blue telling you what he thinks of your supposition.” Ann suddenly looked at her watch. “I’ve got to go, Sean. I want to get to the hospital to visit Carlo.”

  “You’re going to see Carlo?” Sean hoped his voice didn’t sound as goofy to her as it did to him.

  “He’s been so nice to me that I thought I’d visit him again. He’s all alone in a strange town and he’s hurt. It must be awful to lie in a hospital bed with no one to talk to,” Ann said.

  Sean forced himself to nod noncommittally. The way Ann had announced her plans made it clear that she was looking forward to seeing the Storm Channel’s lead weather reporter.

  Perhaps he should tell her the truth about Carlo.

  He’s a louse. You should have heard him talk about you the other evening. Moreover, he’s anything but alone in the hospital. By now, Carlo has probably propositioned half the nurses on his floor.

  Sean swallowed a sigh.

  Leave quietly. She’s smitten and won’t believe you.

  “Well, I’d best be off,” he said. “I have another errand to run this morning.”

  “Thanks for dropping by. I’m sure I’ll see you again before you head north.”

  “You definitely will,” Sean said. He walked down the front steps and headed south on Queen Street, without looking back.

  Fortunately, she hadn’t asked about his errand. He’d decided to sound out Rafe Neilson after all. Ann had judged Carlo Vaughn incorrectly, so perhaps her opinions of Glory’s deputy police chief were equally off base.

  The three-block walk took Sean less than seven minutes, but as he approached police headquarters, he spotted Rafe driving a police cruiser west. So much for sounding out the deputy chief.

  Sean was about to head for the Scottish Captain when he had a fresh thought.

  Okay, Phil. This seems to be the day when you and I get to meet.

  Sean tracked down the telephone number of Glory’s emergency command center. A recorded message announced that the center was closed, explaining that Phil Meade could be reached at Meade Consultancy at 350 Main Street.

  Ta-da! The joys of a small town.

  Sean walked to the brick-faced two-story building and spoke to a bewildered receptionist, who had difficulty dealing with the concept that Sean didn’t have an appointment to see Mr. Meade. She finally agreed to call him, and soon thereafter ushered Sean into a large situation room.

  Sean immediately identified the top dog. A large man whose posture declared that he owned the place stood beside a floor-to-ceiling map of North Carolina that covered the rear wall. He held a sandwich in one hand, a coffee mug in the other.

  “Mr. Meade,” Sean said. “I’m Sean Miller.”

  “You’re one of the Storm Channel folks who were injured the other night.”

  “That’s me.”

  “What’s keeping you in Glory?”

  “I can’t leave until our weather reporter can travel and our broadcast van is back on the road,” Sean explained.

  Phil nodded. “Well, Glory has lots to keep you occupied. I urge you to take advantage of our many well-known attractions while you have the opportunity.” He finished eating his sandwich and tossed the crumpled wrapper into a waste-paper basket.

  “Funny you should say that. I’ve been keeping myself busy by thinking a
bout the accident the other night, if that’s what it really was.”

  Phil’s expression hardened. “If you have something to say to me, young man, say it quickly. Our command center is closed, but there’s still emergency work to be done.”

  “I want to talk to you about Richard Squires’s death.”

  Phil’s eyes seemed to bore through him. “Did you know Mr. Squires?”

  Sean shook his head. “We never actually met. But I was a few feet away when he died.”

  “Then what’s to talk about?”

  “I don’t think his death was an accident. See if you agree with me—”

  “A church steeple fell on Richard during a hurricane!” Phil interrupted. “How can that be anything but an accident?”

  “Just hear me out,” Sean said, and quickly reiterated the three observations he’d made to Ann.

  Phil’s eyes narrowed as he thrust his face close to Sean’s. Sean could smell the sandwich on his breath.

  “Why, that’s about as crazy a theory as I’ve ever heard. Did Ann Trask send you here to feed me that hogwash?”

  “Ann agrees with you. She can’t imagine that anyone would want to murder Richard Squires.”

  “Murder? Who said anything about murder?”

  “Well, if Richard didn’t die by accident, he was murdered.”

  Phil’s face exploded in anger and Sean took a step back. “Get out of here, Miller!” Phil bellowed. “Now! And if you’re wise, you’ll get out of Glory before we meet again!”

  The handful of other people in the room seemed used to Phil Meade’s outbursts. Some offered embarrassed shrugs in response to their boss’s behavior. Others glared at Sean, clearly siding with Phil.

  “Have a nice day, Mr. Meade,” Sean said.

  Phil’s reply was an obscene gesture. Sean realized that he’d made a new enemy, an unyielding opponent who would never put today’s confrontation behind him.

  Poor Ann. She shouldn’t have to deal with Phil Meade by herself.

  “She won’t” Sean muttered, as he pushed open the exit door. “Not while I’m in Glory.” But before he could help Ann, he would have to convince her to accept his help.