The note is signed ‘The Phantom Avenger.’”
Rafe thought about the message for a moment then groaned softly.
“See what I mean?” Angie said. “Sort of—but not exactly.”
“I’ll be there in three minutes.”
Rafe slipped into his khaki trousers, tugged on a warm sweatshirt and grabbed his nylon windbreaker. He’d worry about his police uniform later.
Outside, he fired up his Corvette—taking a moment to enjoy its throaty exhaust growl. Rafe’s ’Vette was a 1978 model, candy-apple-red, a classic that he had lovingly restored and now kept in perfect operating condition.
Rafe’s house on Front Street was five blocks from The Scottish Captain. He kept the ’Vette in second gear for the short drive. He parked across the street and took a moment to contemplate the front of the Captain in the flattering light of an unclouded sunrise.
Rafe chuckled to himself. The silver new Beetle looked at home up on the porch; passersby on Broad Street might well conclude that the bed-and-breakfast was also an eccentric automobile dealership.
The Captain was a large, three story clapboard structure, with a deep front lawn and a charming antique brick walkway. Every tourist guide to Glory explained that the old pile was considered one of the town’s historical buildings. It had been built toward the end of the nineteenth century as an elegant residence for affluent single women. It was a good-looking house, with large windows, double front doors made of oak and a front porch served by a flight of five deep steps nearly twenty feet wide. The porch could hold a dozen chairs and sliders; it was the perfect sort of porch to cradle a compact convertible.
Rafe knew that the Captain had been a bed-and-breakfast since 1982. Before that, the building had served as Glory’s cheapest rooming house, catering mostly to retired pensioners. Rafe recalled that Emma McCall, the current owner, had bought the Captain from Carole and Duncan Frasier, a pair of expatriate New Englanders. The Frasiers had picked up the aging residence for a song in 1981, renovated it into a B and B, and chose the name “The Scottish Captain” on the theory that it communicated three virtues: thrift, competence and a touch of wanderlust.
Rafe had toured the Captain two Christmases ago during an “open house afternoon” to raise money for the Glory Regional Hospital. He remembered that the first floor had both front and rear parlors, a dining room that had become the B and B’s breakfast room, a kitchen and an ornate staircase that began in a high-ceilinged entrance foyer. There were six bedrooms of equal size on the second floor—three on each side of the hallway, each equipped with an en suite bathroom, not a common feature in the nineteenth century.
The tour didn’t include the top story, but the docent explained that the third floor was a self-contained apartment—the owner’s residence—accessible by a private staircase.
Rafe found Angie in her cruiser, writing in a notebook.
“Hi, Angie. Any progress?”
She nodded. “I’ve tentatively labeled the offense a ‘Trespass.’ Does that sound right to you?”
“Only if we want to consider a prank as a crime.”
“The B and B owner is furious. As I told you, she wants to file a formal complaint.”
“A natural first reaction. I’ll try to change her mind.”
Angie looked up from her writing. “That’s right—you know Emma McCall.”
Rafe grinned. “Sort of, but not exactly.” He went on, “Where is she?”
“Working in the kitchen, at the rear of the building. That’s why she didn’t see or hear the Beetle lifted onto the porch.”
“Do we know when it happened?”
“Well, I drove down Broad Street a few minutes after five and the car wasn’t on the porch then.”
“I’d better chat with the lady.”
Rafe slapped the empty pockets of his windbreaker then offered an embarrassed smile. “I forgot my notebook. Can I borrow yours?”
“Sure. You can even keep my notes—if you promise to write up the official incident report.”
“Consider it done. Can you also lend me a pen?”
“You need a wife to keep you organized,” Angie said wryly.
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
Rafe walked along a narrow flagstone path to reach the back of The Scottish Captain. The top panes of the kitchen windows were open; the bottom were shuttered. He couldn’t see inside, but whatever Emma McCall was cooking smelled wonderful.
He stopped to read Angie’s notes.
Time of arrival on scene: 6:03 a.m.; Complainant: Emma McCall; female; Age: 37; Address: 18 Broad Street, Glory; Marital status: divorced; Hair: dark brown; Eyes: brown; Height: approx 5’9”; Occupation: innkeeper; Demeanor: angry; Weather: partly cloudy, cold; Nature of “trespass”: vehicle moved from parking lot to porch of bed-and-breakfast; Estimated time of “trespass”: between 5 and 6:00 a.m.; no apparent damage to B and B; no apparent damage to vehicle; Vehicle details: 2006 Volkswagen New Beetle convertible, silver, tan leather upholstery; Maryland registration: AM70RG3; Vehicle registered to Noelle R. Laurence, Catonsville, MD; Vehicle not listed in National Crime Computer System—presumably not stolen.
Rafe felt like laughing at the meticulous detail. Rookie cops followed procedure to the letter and wrote everything down.
One fact surprised him. He had guessed that Emma—tall, graceful, good looking—was in her early thirties. Because she was also a member of the Glory Community Church Choir, he stood a few feet away from her on most Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings. She seemed an odd duck, a loner who relished her privacy. He had exchanged a few pleasantries with her, but they had never shared a real conversation.
The little he knew about Emma he’d picked up in brief conversations with other choir members. She’d moved to Glory about a year earlier from Seattle, Washington. Apparently, she’d held an important job at a fancy hotel in Seattle but then decided she’d rather run her own B and B.
Rafe knocked on the Captain’s back door.
“Who’s there?” asked a voice deep inside the kitchen.
“Rafe Neilson.”
A hesitation. “Rafe Neilson from the choir?”
“The same—but today I’m Rafe Neilson from the police.”
Another hesitation. “Hang on.”
Emma’s face appeared at the window in the door. She peered at him for a moment then opened the door halfway.
“I didn’t know you were a policeman.”
“My identification card is at home with my badge and my wallet. You’ll have to accept my word that I’m the deputy chief.”
She opened the door fully. He stepped inside the kitchen.
“Let’s say I believe you,” she said. “Now what?”
“I need to talk with you about the report you made to Officer Ringgold.”
She shook her head. “Sorry, I can’t spare a moment right now. My guests expect to be served breakfast beginning at seven-thirty. It’s twenty to seven and my housekeeper is setting up the dining room, which means that I have forty minutes to finish ten chores and change my clothes. Come back in two hours.”
Rafe felt a twinge of sympathy for Emma. She was liberally dusted in flour that had settled beyond the borders of the large chef’s apron she wore. She looked as frazzled as she sounded.
“What if I help you prepare breakfast?” he said. “We can talk while we work together.”
“Do