A Sounding Brass

by Shelley Bates

  Truth? Yeah, right.

  Did Christian musicians ever play the blues? Probably not. Christians probably didn’t get the blues. He’d been listening to Fisher’s shows for almost twenty-four hours now, and apart from U2 and that bluegrass band whose name he couldn’t remember, he hadn’t heard one song about poverty or unrequited love or relationships gone bad. It was all happy stuff, praising God for who knew what. Unrealistic and probably delusional. How was a guy supposed to relate to that?

  And just what was the deal with the Christian radio gig? How did a man jump from ripping off lonely women to spinning CDs? Unless he really had found the Lord and turned his life around.

  Ray slouched even lower. He was never going to be able to bring Fisher in if he’d seen the light and gone straight. What if he’d settled here in Hamilton Falls to get a new start? The guy could find a nice girl, buy a house with a picket fence, and start having babies. Ray would never get the chance to face him in the courtroom and balance the scales for those silent, lonely women and who knew how many other people he’d ripped off during his exciting career in fraud.

  Ray watched as a middle-aged man walked into the station with a sheaf of papers in his hand. A few minutes later, at noon, the stock reports began.

  A man could only stand so much. He flipped the radio off.

  Now what? Follow Fisher home? Yeah, an address would be good. An address and a license-plate number would be a nice start to a case file. Then he could toddle over to the sheriff’s office and run a warrants search against Fisher’s name and if he was lucky—

  The door of the radio station opened and Ray sat up. Sure enough, there was Luke Fisher, jacket slung over one shoulder, looking as cool as a model in Esquire magazine. But who was that with him?

  Black shirt, black skirt, sensible black pumps. Dark hair twisted in a classic Greek chignon.

  Oh, no. Ray’s mouth hung open in dismay as Luke Fisher put a gentlemanly hand on Claire Montoya’s back and guided her down the street to the Chinese café.

  If Fisher and Boanerges were one and the same, she didn’t fit his profile of women to scam. She appeared to be neither middle-aged, wealthy, or lonely—at least that he knew of. So, what was a nice girl like her doing having lunch with a slimeball like Luke Fisher?

  One way or another, Ray was going to find out.

  Chapter 4

  LUKE SLID INTO the booth opposite Claire and gave her the kind of grin that dreams were made of.

  “What’s good in this place?” He glanced at the menu. “Szechuan beef?”

  “This is Hamilton Falls, not Seattle,” she reminded him. All the young people knew the menu by heart—she didn’t even need to open hers. “Here we get broccoli beef and sweet-and-sour pork, and chili peppers are those dried flakes you sprinkle on your pizza.”

  “Good thing I like broccoli beef.” Luke leaned on his elbows as if he were prepared to spend the afternoon getting to know her. “Nice job on the cleanup. Only a couple of days, and you’ve made the place look like a business instead of a barn.”

  She shrugged modestly. “It looked worse than it was. Once the crates were out of there, the rest of it was just housekeeping.”

  “Which wasn’t what you were hired to do. On Monday, you’ll start scrubbing our numbers instead.”

  “What are you doing with everything in the meantime?” There was a computer in one of the offices, but to Claire’s knowledge, no one ever used it. She wasn’t even sure it worked. “Do you have a bookkeeping program to track the receipts and expenses?”

  “Yeah.” He chuckled. “It’s called Sticky Notes.”

  Claire toyed with the chopsticks, sliding them in and out of their paper sleeve. “I haven’t heard of that one.”

  “Yes, you have. You tear ’em off a pad and stick them on the cash box. Yellow sticky notes are for receipts, and blue ones are for expenses.”

  Clearly, this was not a numbers guy. Equally clearly, Claire had her work cut out for her. As soon as lunch was over, she was going to get a handle on the expenses before a financial disaster occurred.

  “I’ll need to get on the signing card for the station at the bank,” she said, “so I can make the deposits and write checks.”

  “No problem. Give Willetts a call after lunch, and he’ll go over there with you. But in the meantime, I’m off shift, and I’d rather talk about my new colleague than about boring things like expenses.”

  “They won’t be boring when the power company shuts down the station because someone forgot to pay the bill.”

  “Toby Henzig looks after all that basic stuff. I don’t have the time for it.”

  The waitress came and took Luke’s order, then glanced at Claire. “The usual?”

  “Yes, please.” The woman scribbled a line on her pad and then left for the kitchen.

  “You always eat the same thing?” Luke asked. “No sense of adventure?”

  “Eating here is hardly adventurous. The pot stickers are good, and so is the hot-and-sour soup, so that’s what I have. Getting back to Toby, he seems to be a nice guy.”

  Luke poured himself a cup of pale green tea and filled hers, then lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “He gets the job done. I’d go nuts if I were stuck with the news and the stock reports myself.”

  “He doesn’t have quite the delivery you do, that’s for sure.” Toby’s voice was soft and tended to put you out after five minutes. It was rumored that someone had even used that as a defense to the insurance company after they’d run off the road.

  “He’s been around here since the mayor was in diapers. A fixture that can’t be replaced, according to Willetts.” Luke’s normally upbeat tone held disapproval, then lightened. “He’s also an assistant pastor at one of the churches.”

  “I heard what you said Wednesday night about us looking outside our familiar boundaries. Maybe Mr. Willetts isn’t ready for that. I don’t know if the Elect are, either.”

  The soup arrived, and Luke dug into his as if it were about to disappear. Claire liked to see a man who appreciated his food. She wondered what his favorites were. Roast beef and potatoes, or shrimp and tofu? She entertained a brief fantasy of herself dazzling Luke with her competence in the kitchen. Like most Elect girls, she’d learned to cook at an early age. Skills like that didn’t seem to matter to worldly men, but to an Elect man, a woman who could cook had the edge over one who had to be taken out to eat all the time.

  And what makes you think he has any interest in you at all, much less how well you cook? Careful, Claire. You don’t want to look desperate.

  “With the leadership in the shape it’s in, change is inevitable. And in my opinion,” he said, “it might as well be positive if it’s going to happen. Now, I know that these things get decided at the Shepherds’ gatherings, but at the moment Shepherds are a bit scarce. If we want to avoid losing our folks, we need to make some changes and welcome others in.” He dropped his spoon into his empty bowl with a clink. “I have some experience there, fortunately.”

  “Really?” The oval dishes of food arrived, and Claire spooned rice onto her plate, then handed the bowl to Luke.

  “Yes. When I was the assistant pastor at Lakefield Central in Downey, it was almost defunct. Maybe twenty-five members, and those were considering disbanding. By the time I left, we had just passed the one-thousand-member mark, and they were in the middle of building a bigger chapel.”

  “Wow. Well, you won’t have to worry about that here. We all fit in the Gathering hall with room to spare.”

  “Ah, but if the Elect make themselves attractive to seeking souls, you might need to expand. And as I said Wednesday, the first thing to work on is appearance.”

  “So that people don’t get fired from banks anymore,” she clarified in a wry tone.

  “Exactly. By the time we’re done, Claire, your ex-manager will be begging for time on your appointment calendar.”

  Claire laughed and promptly choked on a piece of broccoli. She gulped water, and when she could
speak, she said, “I’d buy a ticket to see that.”

  But Luke wasn’t laughing. He handed her a napkin and said, “I’m not kidding. Soon our deposits will be so big that the bank will roll out the red carpet for you. That woman who fired you will be scrambling to bring you a cup of coffee and take your coat every time you walk in the door. Just watch.”

  “You sure have a lot of confidence.” It all sounded like something out of a novel. Things like that didn’t happen in real life—and as for deposits, if she didn’t make one to her own bank account soon, Rebecca wasn’t going to get her rent check.

  “It’s not confidence,” Luke told her. “It’s faith. God has always provided for me beyond my wildest imaginings, as long as I let Him do the leading. I mean, look at you. Half an hour after you walk out of the bank, you see our need for an accountant, and there you are on the doorstep. If that isn’t God’s work, I don’t know what is.”

  Claire wasn’t used to thinking of God in those terms. The Elect didn’t believe that prayer should be used for everyday things. Prayer was for special occasions, like the good china. Tidal waves taking out entire cities. Earthquakes. Wars. You could pray for people in those circumstances, but you’d certainly never pray that God would send you an accountant, or success in your business ventures. That was . . . selfish. And everyone knew that selfish prayers came to a bad end—unless you were praying for the cure of some kind of spiritual defect in yourself. Claire prayed for willingness on a daily basis—willingness to sacrifice her vanity and put on yet another black blouse. Willingness to stay in Hamilton Falls and believe that she was needed there. Willingness to smile at Alma Woods and ask about her health without noticing that critical up-and-down gaze that always made her feel as if she had a run in her black stockings.

  “Yes, but how do you tell the difference between coincidence and the answer to a prayer?” She forked up the last of the sweet-and-sour sauce onto her rice.

  “Timing.” Luke reached for the teapot and filled the little handle-less cup in front of her. “God operates on a different schedule than we want Him to, sometimes, but He definitely operates. For instance, getting back to change in the Elect, look at how He sent me just when Phinehas was arrested and Shepherds all over the state are paralyzed because they don’t know what to do. Is that perfect timing or what?”

  “How did you find us, Luke?”

  He smiled at her again, and something inside her melted. That was the smile she had wanted turned on her from the first time she’d seen him, and now there it was. Did that count as an answered prayer?

  “The Elect aren’t that hard to find in Washington . . . especially when a person has grown up inside and knows to look for the marks of Christ. I moved here a few months ago trying to find the peace I’d lost running a huge ministry in a big city. The radio station needed a shot in the arm, and I had a business plan they couldn’t resist. Then God led me to Owen in the bookstore. We got to talking and before I knew it, he invited me for supper. He sure has a great little family.”

  “Everyone loves the Blanchards. I just wish Madeleine would get better.”

  “That’s in the hands of God. Anyway, four or five hours later I felt as though I’d known the man my whole life, and the rest is history.”

  “If you can induce change in the Elect, that will make history. I know you cautioned us about Phinehas’s leadership, but people still count their appearance as part of their salvation.”

  “We’ll see how God is able to work in their hearts. Owen agrees with me, and he’s the closest thing we have to a leader right now. Whatever happens, God’s will is going to be done, isn’t it?”

  The bill came, and before she could make a grab for it, he’d handed over his credit card to the waitress without even glancing at the total. “This is your official ‘welcome to the staff’ lunch,” he said by way of explanation. Which was fine. It wasn’t as though it was a date or anything.

  Once they were back outside, he put both hands on his hips and surveyed Main Street the way Alexander the Great must have surveyed the Indus Valley. “This is a great town. God’s going to do great things here.”

  “I’m sure He— Hey, isn’t that—”

  Claire craned her neck. She’d seen that sleek, granite-gray truck before. In her own driveway a couple of nights ago, as a matter of fact. It was parked across the street, and a shape was slouched behind the wheel. She leaned over a bit more and waved a little hesitantly. Maybe he was waiting for someone. Or taking a nap. Maybe he thought she was the world’s worst conversationalist and was even now thinking, Oh no, she wants me to talk to her again.

  “Um, never mind.” She turned back to Luke. “So, I’m going to go back and tackle that computer and make some sense of your yellow and blue receipts.”

  “Want me to play you a song when I come in tonight?”

  “Sure.” She grinned. “How about Willie Nelson? ‘Just As I Am.’”

  “You got it. And hey, I’m going to launch a couple of new gigs. People can phone in, and for a gift toward God’s work, I’ll broadcast a prayer for them. I’m going to start a book club, too, maybe next week. What do you think about ‘Hamilton Falls for Books’? Catchy, huh?”

  A reading club sounded relatively normal, but Claire’s views on prayer were getting all stretched out, like a picture from the Sunday comics impressed on Silly Putty. Payment for prayer? Sure, it would be used for God’s work, but prayer was supposed to be private. Certainly not something to be lowered to the level of a transaction. “I—um—”

  “Promise you’ll call in a prayer. It’s bound to be a little slow at first, so I could use some help. Owen and the kids said they’d call in.”

  Owen was treating this as though it were normal. Maybe outside the Elect it was and she just needed to get with the program. “What would I ask for?”

  He shrugged. “Anything you’d pray for in private. People. Things. Attitudes. Anything.”

  What, and spill her most closely held secrets and needs on the radio? Not likely. “I’ll think of something. Maybe I could—” A cat’s paw of a breeze tickled the back of her neck, and goose bumps spread across her shoulders.

  “Hello, Miss Montoya.”

  At the sound of that controlled baritone, Claire turned around and looked straight into the narrowed hazel eyes of Investigator Raymond Harper.

  Who seemed to be deeply unhappy about something.

  * * *

  RAY KEPT HIS TONE polite and noncommittal, in contrast to the slow boil of emotions rolling around his solar plexus. He could hardly believe his own eyes, but here she was, standing on the sidewalk chatting with Luke Fisher after a cozy lunch à deux. Whatever happened to the rule Julia had told him about the Elect keeping themselves separate? “In the world, but not of it,” was how she put it. What a crock.

  It was just plain bad luck that had made Claire spot him. If not for that, he could have followed Fisher to his car and taken the plate number, easy as pie. But he couldn’t take the risk that Claire wouldn’t mention him sitting there. It was better to act normally and hope she didn’t give him away.

  “Luke, this is Investigator Ray Harper of the Organized Crime Task Force.”

  Or not.

  “He’s the one who arrested Phinehas. Ray, this is Luke Fisher, my new boss.”

  Ray’s mind churned, trying to come up with Plan B: What to Do When Your Cover Gets Blown. He held out a hand, watching Fisher closely. “Nice to meet you.” If he expected Fisher to give a guilty start and a few furtive glances out of his beady eyes, he was disappointed. The guy was all sunshine and smiles as he shook hands. Not a care in the world.

  Ray turned back to Claire. “I thought you worked at the bank.”

  “I did. But I got fired, and Luke hired me to do the books at KGHM.”

  “You work at the station?” With Fisher? Together, day in and day out?

  “I sure do. At the moment, I’m just getting the place cleaned up and organized, but starting Monday I should be a
ble to get a handle on the accounting software and start contributing.”

  “You already have,” Fisher said with a smile that probably charmed little old ladies and dogs, not sensible women like Claire Montoya.

  She lowered her eyes and blushed.

  Ray felt like turning away in disgust, but he couldn’t. He had a job to do, and do it he would. As soon as he could figure out how, now that he couldn’t blend into the scenery anymore.

  “So, how is the trial going?” Fisher asked.

  None of your business. “It’s reported in the papers. They’re probably more up to date than I am. I gave my testimony the first day, so I’m done.”

  “Are you local?” Fisher asked. “Or did they bring you in from your usual beat?” Are you going to be around to give me competition and/or trouble? Ray heard as clearly as if the guy had said it out loud.

  “I’m with a state agency, so technically we don’t have ‘beats,’” he said, neatly sidestepping what Fisher wanted to know.

  “What did you call it?” The other man turned to Claire. “Organized crime?”

  “The Organized Crime Task Force,” Claire said. “My best friend is married to Ray’s partner.”

  “Oh.” Fisher gave Ray an appraising look. “Combining a little business with pleasure, then?”

  He made it sound as though Ray had spirited Claire off to a dark corner somewhere and ravished her. Making him the bad guy. Well, two could play at that game.

  “Now that the business part is finished, I was hoping for some downtime here in Hamilton Falls,” he said, and added a smile for Claire’s benefit. “I have some leave coming, so I figured I’d spend it right here.” He glanced at her. “Maybe you could show me some of the sights.”

  “I’d be—”

  “Claire, do you want me to walk you back to the station and help you move the computer into your office?” Fisher asked, taking her elbow in a way that was just too chummy for words.

  She shook her head and took two steps in the direction of the station’s door. “No, I’ve already moved it. And I’ve worked with a couple of systems at the bank, so it shouldn’t take long to figure out. Thanks for lunch, Luke. And have a nice vacation, Ray. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”