Season of Glory
Ron & Janet Benrey

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Agent Keefe retrieved a small notebook. “Tell me what happened yesterday.”

“I finished in the kitchen about three o’clock,” Sharon answered. “We were ready for guests a few minutes before four.”

“Just in time to meet Andrew Ballantine.”

Sharon hoped that her face didn’t reveal her confused emotions—feelings that went counter to her long-held belief that she was much too sensible to fall in love at first sight.

“So, once you began talking with Mr. Ballantine, you lost track of time and the Strathbogie Mist desserts.”

“I suppose so.”

“Consequently, anyone in the gazebo that afternoon could have tampered with them.”

She’d been so engrossed in their conversation that she wouldn’t have noticed if a flying saucer had beamed up the ceramic ramekins. But Andrew had declared it “one of the most incredible dishes of Strathbogie Mist I’ve ever eaten. A dessert to die for.”

He doesn’t know yet how close he came.

RON AND JANET BENREY

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 such fields 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 when they write one.

My heart took delight in all my work, and this was the reward for all my labor. Yet when I surveyed all that my hands had done and what I had toiled to achieve, everything was meaningless, a chasing after the wind; nothing was gained under the sun.

—Ecclesiastes 2:10–11

CONTENTS

PROLOGUE

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

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

EPILOGUE

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

PROLOGUE

The eighteen guests who attended the Sunday-afternoon tea at The Scottish Captain ate every morsel of food offered to them inside the Captain’s back-garden gazebo.

Who could blame them? An authentic Scottish cream tea is not an everyday event in Glory, North Carolina, and the side tables in the gazebo were heaped with handmade sweet scones, clotted cream, twelve kinds of preserves, tea cakes, fruit tartlets, smoked salmon canapés, savory finger sandwiches and dark-chocolate muffins—most prepared by Calvin Constable, the bed-and-breakfast’s superb breakfast chef.

The only dish that wasn’t Calvin’s handiwork was the Strathbogie Mist, a traditional Scottish concoction of pears, cream, sugar and ginger. Sharon Pickard, the cohostess of the tea party, had made twenty-four helpings, which vanished within seconds of being served.

Sharon had brought the desserts to the gazebo a few minutes before the tea began. “Better leave the ramekins covered for now,” Calvin had said to her. “Church elders and committee people can be a ravenous lot.”

Sharon laughed, but she felt a twinge of guilt when she saw Emma Neilson scurrying hither and yon in the gazebo—arranging food on tables and putting the final touches on the Christmas decorations. Sharon realized that asking Emma to host a tea party just eleven days before Christmas had added to the chaos of her friend’s busy life.

Sharon’s own job as head nurse in the emergency room at Glory Regional Hospital could be chock-full of hassles, but Emma, the owner and manager of The Scottish Captain, seemed to work around the clock.

Sharon would have to find a way to repay Emma for her generosity. The hours she’d spent at the Captain hanging Christmas trimmings and helping Calvin in the kitchen were scarcely a down payment.

Thank goodness I never wanted to run a bed-and-breakfast.

“Has the guest of honor arrived yet?” Sharon asked Emma.

“He checked in twenty minutes ago. You’ll be surprised when you meet Andrew Ballantine. He seems too young to be an art historian and an expert on stained glass.” Emma winked at her. “He’s a hunk.”

Sharon heard a car door slam in the Captain’s parking lot.

“Showtime! The guests are arriving.” Emma flipped a switch, turning on the five strings of Christmas lights that ringed the gazebo.

“It’ll be beautiful in here when the sun goes down in a few minutes,” Sharon said.

“Christmas should be the prettiest time of the year at a B and B.”

The partygoers came, welcomed Andrew Ballantine to Glory, ate heartily, drank eight large pots of tea then went home—all without realizing that a serious crime had been committed in their midst.

The senior detective in charge of the criminal investigation was astonished that so many people, gathered together in a small, octagonal summerhouse, had observed so little. After all, two of the merrymakers were members of the Glory Police Department.

Sharon Pickard wasn’t the least bit surprised by the general lack of awareness. The invited guests had splintered into six or seven small groups that quickly became lost in conversation. She’d spent most of the party chatting with the guest of honor. They continued to talk long after the gazebo was empty.

Sharon decided that Emma had been right the moment she saw Andrew Ballantine. He looked more like a football player than a consultant who would help Glory Community Church replace a stained-glass window. He was in his midthirties and had an athletic build—she guessed that he stood about six feet, three inches tall and weighed well over two hundred pounds. He wore a heather-colored Harris Tweed jacket and tan slacks that fit him splendidly and went well with his blue eyes and ruddy complexion. His ears were prominent, and his chestnut-colored brown hair was thick enough to flutter in the afternoon breeze. His facial features were craggy rather than classically handsome, but they came together to create a striking whole.

Who cares? Once burned, twice shy.

The familiar maxim was about fire, but it applied equally well to good-looking men. Sharon had learned the hard way that a man’s most important feature—his trustworthiness—was invisible from the outside.

Not that Andrew’s fidelity made much difference to her. He was a short-term visitor to Glory. They’d spend a few hours working together, and then he’d drive home to Asheville. End of story.

But until he does, there’s no reason to be impolite. Or to ignore his positive attributes. Like his smile.

Andrew had a lovely, animated smile, but he never looked happier than when he thanked Sharon for making the Strathbogie Mist.

“It’s my all-time favorite Scottish treat,” he said.

“I know. I read the article about you in Church Art Monthly.”

“Every flattering remark is absolutely true.”

She grinned. “One thing I don’t know—is there a place called Strathbogie?”

He nodded. “It’s an area in northeastern Scotland, not far from the modern city of Aberdeen. It’s famed for its castle…and obviously for its thick fogs.”

He ended his explanation with a curious low-pitched grunt. Sharon might have ignored it, but Andrew immediately made a soft moan, a sound she’d often heard before—from patients in pain. She peered at him. Both the smile and the color were gone from his face.

Oh, my! What’s going on?

He grimaced. “I feel dizzy…really dizzy. And my chest hurts.” He abruptly tumbled to the floor, smashing a white wicker chair on the way down.

Emma and Calvin were tidying the gazebo. They dropped their trash bags. “I’ll call the paramedics,” Calvin said.

Emma rolled a tablecloth into a small pillow. “You make him comfortable. I’ll try to track down Haley Carroll. She’s one of our guests.”

Sharon nodded. “The doctor I met here earlier.”

She could tell from Andrew’s worsening expression that his chest pain had become more intense. “Hang on!” Sharon said. “The paramedics are on their way.”

Haley Carroll arrived in less than a minute and checked his vital signs.

“He’s seriously ill,” she said to Sharon. “It must have been something he ate.”

“My food couldn’t have hurt him,” Calvin said almost pleadingly. “I’ve been sampling the dishes all day.”

Sharon heard Andrew begin to retch. And then the implications of what Calvin had said hit home. It must have been her Strathbogie Mist that had made Andrew ill.

No! That’s not possible.

She saw red flashing lights above the fence that separated the parking lot from the garden. An ambulance. She moved closer to Andrew and knelt down. Save the explanations for later. All that matters now is keeping him alive.

ONE

Sharon Pickard stepped past the unhung Christmas decorations lying on the floor of the nurses’ lounge and hoped that the joy of the season would rub off on the dour-faced detective who’d shown up at the emergency room and asked to see her. He was wide and muscular and had a shaven head. But most formidable of all were his probing black eyes that made it difficult for Sharon to maintain a friendly smile on her own face. Well, intimidating or not, she had no choice but to speak to the police this afternoon. Someone had committed a serious crime yesterday, and she was partly involved.

At least, around the edges.

She pushed a cardboard box full of Christmas tree ornaments sideways on an old vinyl upholstered sofa to make room for the big man, and then read the business card he had handed her. Special Agent Tyrone C. Keefe, North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation.

“We’ll have to keep this discussion brief, Agent Keefe.” She sat down on the top step of a stubby wooden stepladder that someone had used to hang decorations on the artificial Christmas tree in the corner. “I go back on duty at one o’clock. We’ll have the lounge to ourselves until then. The other off-duty nurses are at lunch.”

He scowled at his watch. “I’m investigating an attempted murder, Ms. Pickard. Twenty minutes may not be enough time for you to answer all of my questions.” His skeptical tone seemed to demand a more detailed explanation from her.

“Glory, North Carolina is a small town,” she said quickly, “and Glory Regional Hospital has limited resources. I’m the only nurse on staff with hands-on experience treating acute cardio-glycoside poisoning.”

“Really?” His dark eyes zeroed in on her. “How did you acquire your expertise, Ms. Pickard?”

She grasped her mistake at once. Her offhand remark revealed that she had the specific know-how to kill people with oleander.

Now he’ll consider me the prime suspect.

Her heart began to thud. She felt uneasy—much like when a police car appeared in her rearview mirror then zipped past her on the highway.

The last thing a nurse needs is a reputation as a poisoner. “Ten years ago I took part in a three-month medical mission to Sri Lanka, the island nation in the Indian Ocean that used to be called Ceylon.”

He gave a quick nod. “Go on.”

“I worked in a rural hospital that routinely treated people for oleander poisoning. Chewing oleander seeds is a popular way to commit suicide in Sri Lanka.”

“Is that what happened to Andrew Ballantine at the tea party? Did someone feed him a handful of oleander seeds?”

“Probably not. Every part of an oleander plant is full of heart-stopping toxin. It’s simple to make a lethal infusion by soaking leaves, stems or seeds in boiling water.”

“And I suppose it would have been equally simple for someone to add a few spoonfuls of oleander broth to the unusual dessert Mr. Ballantine ate yesterday afternoon at The Scottish Captain.” He made an indistinct gesture. “I forget its name.”

“Strathbogie Mist,” she said. “Crushed pears topped with ginger-flavored whipped cream. Served chilled, of course.”

“Of course.” He smirked wryly. “We’re fairly certain that the Strathbogie Mist you served Mr. Ballantine contained the poison he ingested. We’ll be entirely certain when our forensic laboratory finishes testing the…ah, ramekins that held the dessert. However, your pear concoction appears to be the only item he ate that came in an individual serving.”

His high-powered gaze impelled her to turn away. It was probably a technique he’d perfected over the years to encourage people to tell him the truth. She focused for a while on the battered Coke machine in the corner and prayed he didn’t sense her blood beginning to boil. How dare he even suggest that she’d poisoned Andrew?

“For your information, Agent Keefe,” she retorted, “I didn’t serve Andrew Ballantine anything. The helpings of Strathbogie Mist were set out on a buffet table—in The Scottish Captain’s backyard gazebo.”

“And you know that because…?”

“I put them on the table.” She looked Agent Keefe directly in the eyes to convince him she was telling the truth. “I made the dessert yesterday, a few hours before the tea party began. I crushed the pears, I whipped the cream, I even filled the ramekins.” She took a quick breath. “But despite your heavy-handed insinuation, I didn’t lace Andrew’s portion with oleandrin.”

“What’s oleandrin?”

“The poisonous toxin in oleander—the cardiac glycoside that nearly switched off his heart.”

Agent Keefe smirked again. “You think I’m heavy-handed, Ms. Pickard? Look at the crime from my vantage point. You had the best opportunity to poison Mr. Ballantine, along with easy access to the toxin. There’s an oleander bush in the Captain’s back garden, less than twenty feet away from the kitchen door.”

Sharon murmured a silent thank-you that Emma Neilson, the owner of The Scottish Captain, had married Glory’s Deputy Chief of Police. Early that Monday morning, Rafe Neilson had telephoned Sharon to explain that he’d requested assistance from the North Carolina State Bureau of Investigation. “I had no choice,” he’d said. “It would be highly inappropriate for me to investigate an intentional poisoning at my wife’s B and B.”

Rafe had continued. “The NCSBI is sending Ty Keefe to conduct the interviews. He’s smart, experienced and an expert at spotting evasion, so be totally open with him. Don’t even think about lying.”

With Rafe’s safe advice fresh in her mind, Sharon took a moment to frame a response to Agent Keefe’s near-accusation. “Why would I want to poison Andrew Ballantine? He was a complete stranger to me when he walked into the gazebo. He lives in Asheville, on the other side of North Carolina.”

“I was going to ask you about that.” Keefe gazed at her once again with an intensity she could almost feel. “Two other people who went to the tea party told me that you latched on to Mr. Ballantine like he was an old friend—that you barely spoke with anyone else.”

Sharon felt herself blush. “At first we talked about Glory Community Church. He’d spent two hours on Sunday afternoon inside the sanctuary looking at the stained-glass windows. He had several questions about the church and Pastor Hartman. After I answered them, we discussed our shared interests, like Scotland and the Scots. The time flew by.”

“Until he collapsed in a heap.”

She nodded. “Oleandrin often triggers bradycardia, a dangerously low pulse rate. Andrew became pale, said he was feeling nauseated, and then fainted. I called the paramedics. Emma Neilson folded a tablecloth into a makeshift pillow to help make Andrew comfortable. One of the guests at the B and B—Haley Carroll, a physician—worked on him until the ambulance arrived.”

“And once at the hospital Mr. Ballantine received some kind of high-tech antidote?”

Sharon answered with an ambiguous shrug. Agent Keefe must’ve known that she couldn’t voluntarily provide specific details about Andrew’s treatment to the police, although there wasn’t much to keep private. Andrew’s overnight stay in the E.R. was a simple tale with a happy ending. The “high-tech antidote” for oleandrin poisoning was antidigoxin antibodies—a therapy originally developed to treat digitalis overdoses. Five vials helicoptered to Glory from Duke Medical Center in Durham had worked well for Andrew.

Ken Lehman, the lead emergency room physician at Glory Regional had also followed the “old fashioned” treatment protocol throughout the night: He encouraged Andrew to throw up, treated his various cardiac symptoms as they appeared, and gave him multiple doses of activated charcoal to absorb the oleandrin left in his system.

Agent Keefe retrieved a small notebook from his jacket pocket. “Tell me what happened yesterday from the beginning—when you arrived at The Scottish Captain. I’m curious why an emergency room nurse would spend her day off cooking a Scottish dessert in a local B and B.”

“Two months ago an electrical fire in the sanctuary of Glory Community Church destroyed one of the church’s stained-glass windows,” Sharon explained. “The Window Restoration Committee was organized to oversee the window’s replacement. I’m the Chair of the WinReC, as we’ve come to be called.”

“And the members decided to hire Andrew Ballantine to act as your stained-glass window guru,” Keefe interrupted. “I interviewed Emma Neilson this morning. I know that she’s also a member of the committee and that she agreed to host a welcoming tea party for Mr. Ballantine in the Captain’s garden gazebo.” He leaned against the sofa. “Let’s get back to you.”

“I offered to pitch in because Emma is the best friend I have in Glory.”

Sharon peered sideways at Agent Keefe. He seemed to accept her statement without any questions. Good. She didn’t want to have to explain the details of her friendship with Emma to the nosy detective.

They’d met the previous March when Sharon, who sang alto, had joined the choir at Glory Community Church. Emma, a soprano, had recently returned from her honeymoon with Rafe. Sharon and Emma quickly discovered the many other things in addition to good voices they had in common—from a love of women’s softball, to a dislike of church politics, to the painful fact that both had moved to Glory from big cities to escape the stress of messy divorces from unfaithful men.

Stress was the key word. Shedding her husband of six years, starting a new job and moving from Raleigh to Glory had filled her days with “stress points” a year earlier. Blessedly, her new life in Glory now seemed more or less normal—but here was Agent Keefe, trying his best to crank up the pressure.

He would never understand, but filling her free Sunday with busy work had been a fair trade. Helping out in the Captain’s kitchen had benefited Emma. But equally important, enjoying a productive Sunday with a friend at The Scottish Captain had softened the reality that she would go through another Christmas season alone.

“Anyway,” Sharon said, “I arrived at the Captain at one o’clock and began making the Strathbogie Mist. I also worked with Calvin Constable, the Captain’s breakfast chef, to prepare the scones and tea cakes.”

“In other words, you spent the afternoon in the kitchen?”

She thought about this. “Except for two ten-minute breaks when I helped Emma greet arriving guests, starting with the Dickensons—a couple from Pennsylvania. She’s a dentist, he’s a lawyer.”

Sharon wondered if she should share her other routine observations—that Samuel and Theodora Dickenson were a well-tanned, healthy-looking duo: she a lean woman with caramel-colored hair; he somewhat chubbier with ashen hair and a trim brown goatee.

No need. Agent Keefe undoubtedly spoke to them this morning, too.

“Next, I met the Carrolls, from Wilson, North Carolina,” she said. Haley Carroll—an anesthesiologist—was a round-faced redhead, while Michael Carroll—an accountant—was a rangy, mostly nondescript man with an unusually large nose.

Agent Keefe flipped a page in his notebook. “One other guest arrived on Sunday afternoon. A Mrs. Amanda Turner.”

“She checked in while I was cooking. Emma showed her through the kitchen when I was putting away the mixing bowls I’d used.” Sharon recalled that Emma hadn’t looked especially happy when she led the fortyish, full-figured woman with brassy blond hair through the kitchen’s swinging door.

“This is Amanda Turner,” Emma had said with a noticeably strained smile. “Amanda hails from Birmingham, Alabama. She recently purchased The Robert Burns Inn, the B and B on Campbell Street. She’s staying with us until the painters and carpet layers finish redecorating the guest rooms.”

“They promised to be done by Wednesday,” Amanda drawled, “but I almost don’t care, because I know I’m going to enjoy my stay here. The Captain is so lovely, and now I have a chance to see every last inch of the building.”

Sharon had instantly understood Emma’s hesitation. She wasn’t thrilled to give a future competitor a comprehensive tour of The Scottish Captain, but she could hardly refuse, because Amanda was a legitimate paying customer.

Agent Keefe clicked his ballpoint pen then jotted a few words. “How many portions of Strathbogie Mist did you make for the tea party?”

“Twenty-four.”

“All identical?”

“Completely. I filled two dozen six-ounce ceramic ramekins.”

“When did you finish?”

“About three o’clock.”

Keefe made a noncommittal grunt. “What were you wearing when you prepared the dessert?”

The sudden shift in topic startled Sharon. “I beg your pardon. What difference does my clothing make?”

“You wore some sort of pants suit to the tea party. I doubt you worked in the kitchen dressed like that. Where did you leave the puddings when you went home to change?”

She fought back a snicker. “Some sort of pants suit” was made of dark green Dupioni silk, had cost the better part of a month’s salary, and accentuated the best aspects of her figure. It was her Christmas gift to herself this year. She’d seen it at the Glorious Boutique on Main Street and had straight away given in to temptation. Well, why even try to resist? She had no one in her life to buy expensive presents for—and no one to buy them for her.

And no one to tell me blatant lies about business meetings that take all evening…

“Actually, Agent Keefe, I dressed for the tea party in Emma and Rafe Neilson’s bedroom—but I see where you’re going. In fact, the ramekins were never left alone during the afternoon. You can check with Calvin Constable, but I believe he kept working in the kitchen when I went upstairs to change.”

“I did check with Mr. Constable,” Keefe confirmed. “When did you move the desserts to the gazebo?”

“About a quarter to four. Calvin and I used a kitchen cart to wheel all the goodies from the kitchen through the garden. We took turns carrying dishes up the gazebo’s front steps. We were ready for guests a few minutes before four.”

“Just in time for you to meet Andrew Ballantine.”

Sharon hoped that her face didn’t reveal her confused emotions. Everything had happened so quickly and she had spent most of the night in the emergency room doing what was necessary to keep him alive. She and Ken Lehman had worked together in an E.R. resuscitation bay, equipped with patient monitors and a defibrillator in the event they had to restart Andrew’s heart.

Sometime during the evening her own heart had restarted. She realized that she no longer saw him as a “consultant” or even as a “patient.” And to her great surprise she’d stopped worrying about Andrew’s trustworthiness. He’d made a wondrous first impression on her, although she wasn’t sure how he managed to do it. She had prayed during every step of the treatment they’d administered, surprised at the depth of her affection for Andrew that had intensified as she worked to maintain his steady heartbeat. She’d reminded herself over and over again that she’d met him the previous afternoon, that they’d spoken for only an hour, that she knew almost nothing about his personal life—other than he’d grown up in Knoxville, Tennessee, traveled far and wide to do his job, and saw himself as a confirmed bachelor. But biographic details seemed less important than the chief thing she didn’t know—how Andrew felt about her.

Stop acting like a harebrained sixteen-year-old. You’re on the verge of making a fool of yourself.

But logic was ineffective against those pesky feelings she felt—feelings that countered her long-held belief that she was much too sensible a person to fall in love at first sight.

At the party, she’d had to remind herself to stop gaping at the man—and to stop thinking of Andrew Ballantine as perfect. Even now, the memories of that opening hour with Andrew made it difficult to concentrate on Agent Keefe’s ardent questions.

Keefe went on. “So, once you began talking with Mr. Ballantine, you lost track of time and the Strathbogie Mist.”

“I suppose so.”

“Consequently, anyone in the gazebo that afternoon could have tampered with the desserts.”

“True enough.” Sharon thought back to the tea party. The gazebo had appeared crowded, what with the Dickensons, the Carrolls and Amanda Turner talking together and various members of the church coming and going. Sharon supposed that there must have been a dozen people milling about, greeting Rafe and Emma Neilson, and saying hello to Andrew.

She and Andrew eventually moved to a quiet spot two steps down the wide staircase. She’d been so engrossed in their conversation that she wouldn’t have noticed if a flying saucer had beamed up the ceramic ramekins—at least not until Andrew had decided to try one of her homemade treats. He had declared it “one of the most incredible dishes of Strathbogie Mist I’ve ever eaten. Better than my grandmother’s. A dessert to die for.”

He doesn’t know yet how close he came.

“Unfortunately,” Keefe said, “that leaves us with an open-ended array of potential suspects, unless…” He smiled crookedly. “Unless I can find solid evidence that you did it.”

Sharon let herself frown. “You seem to have forgotten that I cared for Andrew most of last night. If I wanted to kill him, I had plenty of good opportunities when he was unconscious in the emergency room.”

“Not necessarily. You knew by then that you’d be considered a suspect in his poisoning. Killing him in the E.R. would have involved too much risk. No—we can be confident that Mr. Ballantine was safe in your hands last night.”

“And he’ll be safe in my hands today,” she murmured.

“Did you say something?” He stood up and pointed at the clock over the door. “Look at that—we finished a full minute ahead of time.”

“I said that you aren’t very bright if you seriously think that I poisoned Andrew Ballantine.”

He shrugged. “At this point in my investigation, everyone who attended the tea party is a person of interest. But I’ll admit that you’re pretty low on my list of suspects. What’s more, I’m rooting that you didn’t do it. Good E.R. nurses are in short supply these days and Rafe Neilson told me that you are considered one of the best in the Carolinas.”

He pulled open the heavy metal door that led to the hospital’s main corridor. He waited until he stood on the threshold to continue. “However, the fact remains that someone tried to kill Mr. Ballantine—someone with a motive we don’t understand. I’d like to close the case before the perpetrator strikes again.”

Sharon smothered a gasp. The notion of a repeat attack hadn’t occurred to her. Was someone in Glory determined to kill Andrew Ballantine? And would that person try again?

TWO

How do I get them to tell me the whole truth?

Andrew Ballantine mulled over his situation and cataloged the six forlorn facts he knew for certain:

1. According to the embroidered label on his blanket, he was a “guest” of Glory Regional Hospital.

2. He’d spent an entire night in a hospital for the first time in his life.

3. He’d been asleep much of that night—drifting in and out of consciousness.

4. He’d awoken at 10:00 a.m. and now felt reasonably clearheaded, although his innards still ached a bit.

5. His illness, whatever its cause, had begun at an afternoon tea party—he dimly recollected drinking a mug of an especially fine Indian Assam.

6. The nurse who’d visited him twice to take his temperature this morning—a rosy cheeked woman named Melanie, who looked about twelve years old—repeatedly replied “I don’t know” when he asked what was wrong with him or why he was attached to five different medical monitors.

Andrew lifted the blanket and peered at the various wires connected to circular pads stuck on his chest, arms and legs, and contemplated yanking the clips loose.

“That would set off the alarms and start a noisy commotion,” he mused. “Maybe then someone in this hospital will tell me what’s going on.”

A tap on the door interrupted his scheming. “Mr. Ballantine?”

Now what? It seemed too soon for another visit from Melanie. Besides, she didn’t knock; she simply stormed in.

“Come in,” he said.

The door opened, revealing a strikingly attractive woman wearing sky-blue scrubs. It took him a few seconds to recognize her as the woman he’d talked with for more than an hour at the tea party. Sharon…

Rats! I’ve forgotten her last name.

She smiled at him from the doorway. “How do you feel?”

“Confused. No one will tell me what put me in a hospital. I woke up an hour ago, and I’ve received a full-blown runaround since then.”

“That’s my fault, I’m afraid.” She moved into the room. “None of the staff who came on duty after seven o’clock this morning knows the whole story of why you’re here. I haven’t had a chance to bring the nurses up to speed.”

Andrew struggled to think of Sharon’s last name. She’d looked different in The Scottish Captain’s back garden. Her complexion had seemed more golden in the late afternoon sun, especially in contrast to the deep green of her outfit. But her blue scrubs this morning and the cool fluorescent overhead lighting in his room conspired to made her skin look pale, almost porcelainlike.

Yesterday, her ash blond hair had brushed her shoulders; now, it was tightly pinned back. One feature hadn’t changed, however. Despite her metal-rimmed glasses, her amber eyes appeared as luminous as when he’d stood next to her on the gazebo steps—and even more lively.

A vision flashed in Andrew’s mind. “I remember a stocky man,” he said. “In his forties. Mostly bald with a friendly face and a small goatee. He kept shining a light in my eyes.”

“Ken Lehman is our lead emergency room physician. He spent most of the night working on you.”

“I want to talk to Dr. Lehman. How can I get hold of him?”

“You can’t right now. He went home to get some sleep.”

“He’s home sleeping? That’s just wonderful!”

“Actually, it is wonderful,” she said. “I had to fight with Ken to make him leave the E.R. He came on duty at two o’clock. yesterday afternoon, and it wasn’t until five this morning that he agreed you’d made sufficient enough progress for him to get some rest. I promised to monitor you and call him if your condition gets worse.”

“Will I get worse?”

“No. You’re on the mend.”

Another memory jogged his mind. He’d woken up briefly during the night and seen a patchwork of images: a tress of blond hair, a woman praying silently and the glint of a needle attached to a green plastic tube.

“You were my nurse last night, right? You stuck something in my arm.”

Her amber eyes flashed mischievously. “Several somethings.”

Concentrate! What’s her last name?

Andrew tried to dredge up their conversation in the gazebo. Had she told him that she was an emergency room nurse? Probably, and many other things about herself, too—but most of the tea party was still a blank in his mind.

You’re not as clearheaded as you thought you were.

He peered at her nametag, but her last name was too small to decipher from across the room.

“On the mend from what?” he asked.

She took a step toward him. “You were poisoned.”

“Tainted food! I thought it must be something like that.” He shook his head in mock sadness. “That’s what happens when Americans attempt to cook Scottish vittles without proper training. No doubt a fusty scone I ate at afternoon tea laid me loo—as my Scottish grandmother would say.”

He expected her to nod, but surprisingly her face darkened. “None of the food you ate at the party made you ill.” Then she glared at him. “Not even the dessert I prepared.”

Embarrassment tore through him. “I remember. You made the Strathbogie Mist.”

“Which you loved.”

“How could I not? It’s comfort food straight from my childhood. My grandmother served us Strathbogie Mist every Sunday—even during the winter when she used canned pears instead of fresh. That’s why I ate two helpings at the tea party.”

“Now you’re fibbing,” she said with a laugh. “There weren’t any extra portions.”

She came another step closer. At last, he could read her nametag.

Pickard. Sharon Pickard!

“There must have been extras,” he said. “Two of those little ceramic dishes appeared by my side. I don’t recall who gave me the first one, but I’m all but certain that Emma Neilson brought me the second helping a few minutes later.”

Her smile vanished. “I wish you hadn’t eaten any.” She sat down in the visitor’s chair alongside his bed and pointed at his heart. “You were poisoned. Really poisoned. Someone tried to kill you by spiking one of your ramekins with oleander toxin. You consumed more than enough toxin to stop your heart. Oleander poisoning has a high death rate. You could easily have died last night.”

Andrew glanced at her fingers a few inches from his chest, and then at the anxious grimace on her face. All at once, the words she spoke hit home. Poisoned. Toxin. Stop your heart. Death. He shivered as he recognized that she sincerely meant everything she said. He made a feeble wave toward the medical monitors in the room. “All these electronic gadgets…you actually used this stuff on me?”

“Every last screen, meter and dial.”

“I could have died…” he said without meaning to.

“But you didn’t. Ken Lehman kept you alive.”

Andrew recalled that he’d seen many glimpses of blond hair during the night. “Ken and you.”

“True. I helped Ken,” she replied with a new smile that made her face glow.

He realized that he was gawking at Sharon. Her jubilant expression made her more than striking—she’d become beautiful.

Stare at her later. After she’s answered all your questions.

“You said that the toxin I downed came from oleander. Do you mean the shrubby evergreen with large five-petalled blossoms? The plant some people call rosebay?”

She nodded. “Is gardening one of your hobbies?”

“I’m not sure I could recognize an oleander in the flesh, so to speak, but during the 19th century, the Ballantine Studios built several church windows that incorporate oleanders in their designs. I’m quite familiar with the stained-glass rendering of the plant. Some have pink blossoms, others white.”

“Oleander is an efficient killer. Fortunately, the symptoms you presented helped Ken Lehman make a quick diagnosis. You even had the classic redness of the skin around your mouth.” She touched the depression on his face, just above his chin. “It hasn’t faded yet.”

Andrew shivered at her touch, astonished at its gentleness. He thought back to the tea party. He remembered feeling woozy, uncoordinated. He wondered what he’d eaten that was making him nauseated and his insides ache. Then he became dizzy and everything changed perspective. He slowly became aware that he’d tumbled to the floor. His side hurt, but nowhere near as much as his stomach. He’d probably hit something solid, perhaps a chair, on his way down.

Someone was shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes and saw Sharon.

“Dr. Carroll,” she said. “Can you take a look at Andrew?”

A moment later, Andrew felt a woman’s fingers touch his wrist and then the artery in his neck.

“His pupils are dilated and I don’t like his pulse. I barely felt anything in his wrist and his carotid pulse isn’t much stronger. I wish I had my medical bag.”

“I know that Emma has an EpiPen auto-injector inside the Captain’s first-aid kit,” Sharon said. “Could this be some kind of allergic reaction?”

“I doubt it. He doesn’t have the other symptoms of allergic shock.”

“Hang on, Andrew,” Sharon said. “The paramedics are on their way.”

“Praise God for that,” Andrew had muttered. The pain in his stomach had become sharper, more concentrated. And then his chest had felt tight. He could tell that something was wrong with his heart. Could he be having a heart attack?

Not when I’m only thirty-four years old.

Emma had said, “Here’s a folded tablecloth. I’m going to put in under your head.”

“What a good idea,” Andrew had replied, softly. Despite the aches in his stomach and his chest, he’d begun to feel drowsy. Why not take a little nap? He’d had a long day, starting with a seven-hour drive from Asheville…then he’d studied the church windows…and then all the talking at the tea party…

Returning to the present, Andrew found the bed remote control and worked the button that lifted him to a sitting position. “I don’t even remember the trip in the ambulance.”

“You were unconscious when we strapped you to the gurney.” Sharon’s face was filled with anxiety again. “Oleander toxin causes a variety of heart rhythm problems—all of them serious.”

He tried to assess the beating of his heart. The gentle throb inside him seemed normal, although something Sharon had said kept nudging at his thoughts.

“Look…I don’t have any enemies in Glory—or in Asheville, for that matter. I can’t get my head around the idea that someone poisoned me on purpose.”

“The police confirmed it.”

“The police? So it’s an official investigation?”

“That’s right. They consider your poisoning attempted murder.” She tossed her head unhappily. “In fact, a special agent named Keefe wants to talk to you. I told him you’d be ready to be interviewed later this afternoon.”

“Sheesh!”

“And a dozen reporters have called the hospital asking about you. By evening, your story will be front-page news from coast to coast.” She looked faintly amused. “Who can blame them? It’s not often that a famous stained-glass guru is poisoned by a toxic Scottish dessert during afternoon tea at a small-town bed-and-breakfast.”

“Whoa! Who says I’m famous?”

“The Internet.” She held up a wireless laptop computer. “Last night while I was waiting for the antitoxin we gave you to do its thing, I accessed a search engine and entered your name.”

“Don’t believe everything you find on the Net.”

“I discovered that Glory Community Church imported the world’s foremost expert on painted stained-glass windows. We knew that you’re the great-great-great-grandson of James Ballantine of Edinburgh, the man who built our windows. But we didn’t know that you’re celebrated on four continents.”

“In highly limited circles.” He let himself grin. “But world expert or not, I have no interest in talking to reporters.”

“Bless you! The Scottish Captain doesn’t deserve a flood of negative publicity merely because Emma Neilson did a good deed and hosted a tea party.”

“Talking about good deeds…I need to get back to work. I have a presentation to prepare. I’m scheduled to speak to the elders of the Church tomorrow evening.” He laughed. “Well, you know that. You sent me the invitation.”

“If you take it easy today,” she said, “I’ll do my best to get you released tomorrow.”

“I’m feeling fine.”

“You look fine, too. But five hours ago, you were sleeping in our emergency room—and twelve hours ago, we had you listed in critical condition.”

“And so, I’m stuck here in bed until tomorrow morning?”

“Until we’re sure that your heart rhythm is back to normal.” She swung her index finger to and fro like a metronome. “I’ll keep you company for a while.”

Andrew saw something blossom in Sharon’s eyes that he tried to gauge. Was it…enthusiasm? Did she enjoy spending time with him? He felt a ripple of concern. He’d never been good at reading women’s faces. Her “enthusiasm” might be nothing more than wishful thinking on his part, or maybe her routine attempt to come across as polite and professional.

They had spoken for a long time at the tea party. He must have liked her then…he certainly liked her now. But what had they talked about? He remembered only snips and scraps of their conversation. They were both single. They both enjoyed skiing. And both bicycled from their homes to their workplaces. Not much to go on. Worst of all, he didn’t recall her body language or the other non-verbal cues that signaled her thoughts about him.

“What else did you learn about me on the Internet?”

Andrew squirmed at the clumsiness of his own words. You sound like an egotistical clod. Ask about her.

Before he could undo the damage, she said, “I learned that we have something in common.”

She reached into her pocket and brought out a cell phone that was also a personal-digital assistant. She pressed a few buttons. A photograph of a small white dog appeared on the screen.

“Meet Heather Pickard.”

“You have a Scottish Terrier, too?”

“Heather is three years old. She isn’t a show dog, like your Scottie.”

“You’ve heard about MacTavish? Well, he’s retired from the show ring.” He looked around for the telephone. “I have dozens of photos in my laptop. If I can get someone to retrieve it from the Captain, I’ll dazzle you with Mac’s portfolio.”

Sharon pulled a face. “Nice try. But no laptops or cell phones until tomorrow. You’ll have to make do with conversation today.”

“In that case, let me ask you a question. You know how to cook Scottish desserts, you have a Scottish Terrier, and you live in Glory, North Carolina, a town founded by Scots. I see a pattern developing. Am I right?”

“It’s true that I like Scottish things…” She smiled then added, “All except plaid.”

“Me, too—but I can explain my Scotophilia. It’s in my blood. What’s your excuse?”

She began to laugh. “You used the wrong word. Scotophilia is a medical term that means a preference for darkness or night. You don’t seem the type of person who avoids the light.”

“Scotophilia is also a fondness for Scotland and the Scots. I found the definition on the Internet.”

She laughed louder.

“Anyway,” he said. I’m a Scotophile because my grandparents moved from Scotland to North Carolina after WWII.”

She stopped laughing long enough to say, “As a matter of fact, so did my grandparents. The Pickards hail from Glasgow.”

“I can’t believe that Pickard is a Scottish name. It sounds French.”

“Our Scottish branch isn’t as large as the Ballantine Clan, but ‘men of Picardy’ have lived in Scotland for hundreds of years.”

Andrew forced himself to look at the small Christmas wreath on the wall above Sharon’s head and count the four gold angels and nine silvery stars. From what he’d seen, the hospital had been restrained in putting up Christmas decorations. Still, thanks to the holiday season, he could gaze at something other than Sharon’s lovely face.

Don’t say what you want to say.

He ached to tell Sharon that that she looked her most lovely when she laughed—but that would probably make her laugh at him. Even if it didn’t, why start something that would only lead to disappointment. Some guys weren’t meant for long-term relationships. You, for example. You’ve proven that enough times to recognize the truth.

Help them restore the church window, and then get out of Glory.

THREE

Sharon waited in the hospital’s lobby, her mind filled with the hazy notion that she was about to lead Andrew Ballantine into harm’s way. As the patient in Room 204, he was relatively safe—especially with the formidable Special Agent Keefe still poking around, annoying the E.R. staff and paramedics with questions. But outside the hospital—well, anything could happen in the real world.

She watched the elevator door slide open. Melanie Luft, the floor-duty nurse who’d cared for Andrew, pushed his wheelchair alongside the Information kiosk in the lobby.

Melanie looked elfin in a Santa hat as she walked back to the elevator—a reminder that Christmas was only nine days away. But despite the approaching holiday, Sharon found the hat more frivolous than festive. The thought of a poisoner stalking Andrew had overwhelmed the joy of the season. It no longer felt like Christmas to Sharon.

Her former husband had announced his intention to leave a few days before Christmas two years ago. She’d urged herself not to allow the divorce to destroy her love of Christmas—and she’d succeeded. But how could she enjoy the Season of Lights this year when Andrew might be in lethal peril?

Andrew waved at her, a cheerful smile on his face. She jogged to the wheelchair and reprimanded him, “Let’s get one thing straight. You’re not going to overexert yourself today.”

“Wow! Did I do something wrong?”

Sharon winced at her overreaction to his understandable pleasure at leaving the hospital. She’d scolded Andrew, she knew, because she was worried about him—and also harbored guilt for orchestrating his premature release.

“Your cardiologist wanted you to spend another day in bed until we’re entirely sure your heart rhythm is back to normal,” she said briskly. “I talked her into letting you go this morning—with the understanding that you’d have a no-stress day and wear a real-time cardiac monitor.”

Andrew patted the book-sized plastic box clipped to his belt. “Melanie described it as a portable patient monitor.”

“It’s more than that. There’s a cell phone module inside that transmits your cardiac data back to the hospital every hour. It will report abnormal rhythms as soon as they occur.”

He peered up at her. “I just noticed…you’re not wearing scrubs.”

The admiration she could hear in his voice pleased her. She’d chosen her simple outfit—a cashmere sweater and designer jeans—because it flattered her figure. This wasn’t a date, but why not look her best?

“I’m your chauffeuse today,” she said. “You’re not allowed to drive until you rack up twenty-four more hours of normal heartbeats, so I arranged for another nurse to replace me in the E.R.” She stepped behind Andrew, took hold of the wheelchair’s handles, and pushed the chair toward the hallway that led to the parking garage.

“Thanks for springing me from Glory Regional. Another night upstairs would have driven me bonkers.” He added, “I’m raring to get to work.”

“Don’t ‘rare’ too hard. You’ll trigger your cardiac surveillance system.”

“I feel fine.” He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Admit it—I even look healthy.”

She replied by pushing the wheelchair faster. It was true that Andrew seemed as hale and hardy as when she first saw him. But she knew that Sharon Pickard, Committee Chair, not Sharon Pickard, Registered Nurse, had championed Andrew’s early “parole” from medical care—for purely practical reasons.

Andrew was scheduled to speak at a special Tuesday night elders’ meeting at Glory Community Church, where he would present for their approval his recommended strategy for restoring the broken stained-glass window. Alas, it was too close to Christmas to reschedule the meeting. If Andrew didn’t speak tonight, the committee work she found so tedious would drag on another month.

Well, whatever her motives for persuading his cardiologist, Andrew would remain “fine” and “healthy” today. She’d be at his side throughout the day—his own private duty nurse.

I won’t let him overdo. And I’ll make sure he’s not poisoned again.

She paused in front of the sensor to allow the electric doors to open, then pushed the wheelchair into the parking garage.

“I can walk from here,” Andrew said.

“Stay put! My car is at the other end. I intend to bring the wheelchair with us today. In case we need it.”

“I feel silly being wheeled around.”

“Get used to it. It’s all part of the deal I made.”

“Whew! You can be tough,” he said with a chuckle.

“Not tough enough,” she murmured. I didn’t say no to Pastor Hartman.

Daniel Hartman had approached her just before Thanksgiving. “Sharon, we need someone like you to chair our Window Restoration Committee.”

“I’m not a committee person,” she’d said truthfully. “I’m impatient and not at all diplomatic.”

Daniel countered her objections. “It’ll be an easy job for someone with your organizational skills and experience. It’s a small committee—only three members plus yourself. You’ll meet occasionally to decide the best way to repair our damaged stained-glass window. Once the committee recommends a course of action to the elders, Ann Trask Miller—our church administrator—will oversee the actual construction work when the restoration strategy is approved by the elders.”

He’d made it seem like such a simple assignment. But the “occasional meetings” had quickly become three meetings a week as the WinReC discovered that the job of restoring a stained-glass window was a festival of unforeseen complexities. After two weeks of wheel-spinning, the members reluctantly decided to import a stained-glass expert to help them plan a restoration strategy.

“End of the line. Here’s my car.” She stopped in front of a compact sedan. “You buckle up in the passenger seat while I collapse the wheelchair and stow it in the trunk.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“To your office.”

“I have an office?”

“We didn’t get the chance to tell you on Sunday, but Gordie Pollack set up an office for you to use while you’re in Glory.”

“Did I meet Gordie at the tea party?”

“Briefly. He’s the Director of the Scottish Heritage Society, Glory’s Number-One expert on our Scottish traditions and history. He’s also a member of the church’s Window Restoration Committee. He’s become the project’s “historic conscience”—the person who champions the window’s cultural significance.”

Sharon climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine.

“Glory is a small town,” Andrew said, “and it’s a fine morning for a brisk stroll. Do we really have to drive to my office?”

“True. I agree. And, yes—it’s not negotiable.” She put the car in gear. “No brisk strolls until your cardiologist feels confident you won’t suffer another bout of bradycardia.”

“I’ll say it again. You’re tough.”

She drove in silence for more than a minute. “That impressive stone and granite edifice ahead on the left, on the corner of Front and Main, is the Glory National Bank Building—the tallest structure in Glory.”

“Our destination?”

“Yep. Your office is on the second floor.”

Sharon found a parking space in front of the building.

“What happens now?” Andrew said.

“We’ll risk you walking from here on.”

Sharon followed Andrew into the building then through the high-ceilinged lobby, her heels tapping on the marble floor.

“Let’s climb the staircase to the second floor,” he said.

“Let’s no t. A sudden increase in your pulse might trigger your heart monitor. If that happens, we’d be hip deep in paramedics.”

Sharon noted that Andrew stared straight ahead as they rode up in the elevator. He must’ve been getting irritated with her seemingly foolish edicts. Well, the world would be back to normal tomorrow—for him and for her.

The Scottish Heritage Society occupied a small suite on the eastern end of the second floor. Gordie Pollack gave Sharon a hug, then moved toward Andrew, his hand outstretched. “The last time I saw you, Andrew,” he said, “you were as dark green as a MacAulay hunting tartan. I’m delighted to see you returned to the pink.”

He trilled his tongue as he said “dark” and “returned,” combining his mellifluous voice with a thick Scots accent to create a sound that Sharon found delightful. Gordie was charming and friendly, with bright blue eyes and handsome features. The ladies in Glory loved him, but he was firmly attached to Siobhan Pollock—who was as proud of her Irish ancestry as he was of his Scottish.

Sharon smiled as Andrew took up the Scottish brogue challenge. “Aye, Mr. Pollack,” he said. “I only wish everyone in Glory was as perceptive as ye. The doctors at the hospital fear I’m still ailing and as helpless as a wee bairn.”

“Enough Scottish games,” she chided. “Let’s put Andrew to work.”

“Certainly…” Andrew said with the longest trill of all.

“I yield to your rolling of the Rs.” Gordie raised his hands in mock surrender. “I converted our conference room into a guest office for you. We retrieved your laptop bag this morning from The Scottish Captain, so you should have everything you need.”

Sharon followed Andrew and Gordie into the smallish room. The walls were lined with the crests and framed tartans of the Scottish families who’d settled in Glory in 1733—McGregor, Macdonough, Stewart and Campbell in the places of greatest honor.

Sharon circled the room to examine the majestic, nineteenth century painting that depicted Scottish sporting exhibitions, but Andrew all but ignored them. He’d moved to the east wall and given his attention to five large unframed photographs—each three feet by two feet—of Glory Community Church’s stained-glass windows.

“Five windows, five of Jesus’ best-known parables,” he said.

Sharon perched on the edge of the conference table and listened to Andrew orate. He seemed to enjoy speaking to an audience. Good. He would impress the elders tonight.

“First,” Andrew went on, “is The Prodigal Son, everyone’s favorite. The window depicts the delighted father celebrating the wayward son’s return.”

He gestured toward the second photograph. “The next depicts another familiar parable, The Lost Sheep.”

“That’s also one of my favorites,” Sharon joined in. “The shepherd has just found his one lost sheep, and in the distance we see the roughly ninety-nine he left alone while he went searching.” She chuckled. “A supply pastor gave an especially dull sermon when Daniel Hartman was on his honeymoon. I actually counted the sheep in the window. There are only thirty-eight.”

Andrew nodded. “But there are ten coins in the window that depicts the parable of The Lost Coin. A woman who lost one of ten precious silver coins rejoices when she finds it. The fourth window presents the parable of The Wise and Foolish Builders.”

“My turn,” Sharon said. “A flood made of cobalt blue glass washes away the home of the foolish man who built his house on sand, but can’t damage the house of the wise man who built atop a solid foundation.”

“Finally, we have The Pearl of Great Value, the parable shown on the window that was destroyed by the fire,” Andrew began again. “The illustration portrayed the merchant overseeing the sale of his things so that he could purchase the prized pearl—which sits on a marble display stand near the top of the window. The pearl, of course, is the focal point of the illustration.”

Andrew turned around to face Sharon and imitated the posture—complete with outstretched hands—of a preacher delivering a sermon. “The Kingdom of Heaven is like a merchant looking for fine pearls. When he found one of great value, he went away and sold everything he had and bought it. Matthew 13:45-46.”

Sharon had expected Andrew to spout off about artistic merit, not grandly proclaim a Bible verse. She clapped appreciatively. “A man who quotes Scripture verbatim. I’m impressed.”

He gave a theatrical bow. “Work with ecclesiastical glass long enough, and you can’t help learning the best-known verses of the Bible.”

Gordie chimed in. “What you said about the pearl being the focal point proved to be true in every way. Our fire chief said the pearl was the last part of the window to melt away.”

Sharon recalled the day of the fire. She’d treated two firemen who had arrived at the E.R. with minor injuries. Both reported their astonishment that the fire crew had been able to contain the blaze to one narrow corner of the sanctuary. The fire had begun in a run of ancient electrical wiring directly below the window, and had traveled upward rather than sideways. The Glory Gazette reported this fact as “a stroke of great fortune,” but many church members considered it a miracle.

Andrew gestured toward the wall. “These photographs are stunning,” he said. “Who took them?”

“Lori Hartman,” Gordie replied, “the Pastor’s new wife. She took them last May, before they were married.”

“You’re lucky to have them. I can compare the colors on these photos with the surviving windows and figure out exactly the kind of glass used in the fifth window. They’ll also help us with the painting.”

Gordie stepped closer to the photos. “Now I get to ask my dumb question. I always thought that stained-glass windows were made of colored glass, not painted glass. Where did I go wrong?”

“You ended your journey of learning too early.” Andrew pointed to the image of the pearl merchant. “Stained-glass windows are made of pieces of colored glass held together with lead strips called cames. But before we assemble the window, the fine details are painted on appropriate pieces of glass, which are then fired in a kiln to make the paint part of the glass surface.” He tapped the merchant’s face. “Ta-da! Painted stained glass.”

Sharon slipped to her feet. “I’ll get out of your way so you can think about your presentation.”

Andrew waved a small black notebook. “You wouldn’t let me have my laptop yesterday, but I never travel without this tucked into my jacket pocket. I did lots of thinking last night.” He showed the inside of the notebook to Sharon. She could see one short sentence written in bold block letters.

“I have a simple recommendation to make to the elders,” he said. “Duplicate the original window exactly.”

“Is that possible?” Sharon asked.

“Absolutely! The original window was designed by a Scottish artist named Daniel Cottier and built by James Ballantine, my genuinely famous forebear. There’s a stained-glass workshop in New Bern, North Carolina that can fabricate an identical window, if we provide the cartoon—the detailed blueprint and design drawing.” Andrew smacked the notebook against his palm. “Now here’s the really good news. The cartoon for the window is preserved in the Ballantine family archives.”

“So that means we’ll get our old window back…” Sharon said.

“…as if there’d never been a fire,” Andrew replied.

“It seems a no-brainer,” Gordie said excitedly. “Why would the church do anything else?”

“Why indeed?” Sharon felt like cheering. Andrew had come up with an easy-to-implement solution that would quickly erase all memories of the fire. The elders were bound to agree with such a straightforward recommendation and her life would become committee-less once again. With luck, before Christmas. That would be her “Pearl of Great Value.”

Sharon pulled Gordie aside. “This is going to sound silly, but would you lock your front door today?”

“Way ahead of you. When Agent Keefe questioned me, he mentioned that Andrew might still be a target.” He added with a frown, “I find that hard to believe in downtown Glory, but…”

Sharon nodded. “As the Scot’s proverb says, ‘better to keep the devil out, than have to put him out.’”