Glory Be!

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"What's wrong with this picture?" Emma McCall muttered, as she plunged her hands into a mound of croissant dough. "It's pitchblack outside and I'm up to my elbows in flour." Emma was the sole proprietor of The Scottish Captain, a bedandbreakfast in Glory, North Carolina. Some days, though, the Captain seemed to own her. Today was a perfect example. She had risen at 4:00 a.m. because Calvin Constable, her breakfast chef, had taken a wellearned day off. That left Emma on her own to prepare this morning's breakfast, until Peggy Lyons, her housekeeper, arrived at six. Emma glanced at the wall clock in the kitchen. Ten to six. If Peggy came on timeand if nothing went wrongthey would finish with ten minutes to spare. Just enough time to strip off her scruffy Tshirt and faded blue jeans and slip into one of her chic hostess outfits. Today she might go for the tailored suit in a shade of tan that went well with her dark brown hair. The Captain had six guest rooms and could accommodate a maximum of eighteen guests in a pinch, although offseason bookings rarely exceeded half a dozen. On this, the first Wednesday in November, Emma had to prepare breakfast for five people. The centerpiece dish would be Eggs Sardou, a classic New Orleans concoction of poached eggs served on artichokes with spinach and hollandaise sauce. She would also offer a selection of imported bacon and sausages, hot croissants, freshsqueezed orange juice and her "signature" gingered fruit compote. And, of course, coffee and brewed tea. Emma had decided to serve an elaborate breakfast because three of her guests were New England travel writers, part of a contingent on a prewinter junket through North Carolina. Their favorable recommendations might bring flocks of northern "snowbirds" to The Scottish Captain as they traveled south. The other two guestsa couple who hailed from Marylandalso had influence. He was a prominent Washington attorney, she an evening news anchor on a Baltimore TV station. Emma had just begun to shape croissants on a large buttered pan when Peggy Lyons burst into the kitchen and shouted, "There's a bug on the porch." Emma willed herself not to scream at Peggy. She had seen this same panicstricken look on her housekeeper's face many times before. Peggy was a fine worker but easily flustered by minor problems. Emma unstuck her fingers from the slick, buttery dough. "Tromp on the bug, Peggy," she said, evenly. "Whap it with a newspaper, spray it with insecticide, or catch it in a jar. Pick one of the above, but do it quickly. I need your help." "You don't understand, Emma. There's aBugon the porch. A car! A silver Volkswagen Beetle convertible." * * * Rafe Neilson fumbled for his cell phone in the dark. He knew without looking at the glowing Caller ID display that Angie Ringgold needed his advice. Angiea newcomer to the departmentwas the only police officer on duty in Glory, North Carolina, that morning. "Good morning, Angie," he said sleepily. "I'm sorry to call so early, Rafe, but someone pulled a weird prank on Broad Street. There's a Volkswagen Beetle sitting on The Scottish Captain's front porch." "A prank?" He cleared his throat. "When did it become a police matter?" "The Captain's owner dialed 911. She wants the responsible party arrested and I don't know what to tell her. Is moving a car to a porch a crime? And, if so, what kind of crime? The curriculum at the Police Academy stopped short of practical jokes." Rafe peered at his clock6:20 a.m. "Do you know who did the deed?" "Sort ofbut not exactly." "What does 'sort of' mean?" "There was a note tucked under the windshield wiper. I'll read it to you. 'Dear Emma. Your lack of support for enhancing the contemporary s