Angels Undercover Read online

  Angels

  Undercover

  Mystery

  and the Minister’s Wife

  Through the Fire

  A State of Grace

  Beauty Shop Tales

  A Test of Faith

  The Best Is Yet to Be

  Angels Undercover

  Into the Wilderness

  Where There’s a Will

  Dog Days

  The Missing Ingredient

  Open Arms

  A Token of Truth

  Who’s That Girl?

  For the Least of These

  A Matter of Trust

  Funny Money

  To Have and to Hold

  How the Heart Runs

  A Thousand Generations

  Home to Briar Mountain

  Flight of the Sparrows

  A Firm Foundation

  Off the Record

  A Distant Memory

  Tea and Sympathy

  The Master’s Hand

  Strangers in Their Midst

  Mystery and the Minister’s Wife is a trademark of Guideposts.

  Copyright © 2008 by Guideposts. All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the publisher. Inquiries should be addressed to the Rights & Permissions Department, Guideposts, 110 William Street, New York, New York 10038.

  The characters and events in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

  All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise noted, are taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan Bible Publishers.

  Guideposts.org

  (800) 932-2145

  Guideposts Books & Inspirational Media Division

  Cover design by Dugan Design Group

  Cover illustration by Rose Lowry, www.illustrations.com

  Interior design by Cris Kossow

  Typeset by Nancy Tardi

  Printed in the United States of America

  Friends are angels sent down to earth

  to enrich our days and help us find our way.

  To Miriam Parrott, an angel in my life.

  Chapter One

  It was a rainy and blustery fall night, and the blazing lights at the Hanlon house should have been a welcoming sight as Kate drove up their street. Except for one small, troubling detail: someone other than Kate or her husband, Paul, had turned on the lights.

  And no one else had a house key.

  Kate slowed the Honda as she neared the parsonage and squinted through the rain, her senses ratcheting up to full alert.

  Paul was at a conference center in the Smoky Mountains, leading the first annual Faith Briar Church board retreat and wasn’t expected home until later that night. Kate had been at an all-day workshop taught by a local stained-glass artist.

  Kate eased the car to a stop before turning into the driveway. Her house was lit up like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.

  She tried not to think about that terrifying night, not long after they moved to Copper Mill, when someone broke into their home—the same night someone tried to run her off the highway. She also tried not to think about how she and Paul hadn’t gotten around to changing their locks or adding some sort of security system.

  She clicked the garage-door opener, hoping to see that Paul had come home early and that his pickup was tucked safely inside. But the garage was empty, causing her heart to skitter through a couple of double-time beats.

  Instead of pulling into the driveway, she parked across the street, swiped the moisture off the driver’s-side glass with the sleeve of her raincoat, and peered through the rain at the parsonage, taking in every brightly lit window.

  There seemed to be no movement inside, but if an intruder had seen her headlights, he might be hiding. Fingers trembling, she pulled out her cell phone and dialed Paul, thankful to get a good signal.

  He picked up after the first ring.

  “Paul, I think someone...” She was whispering, which made no sense: she was sitting in her Honda across the street from the parsonage, windows rolled up, in the low din of a light rain. She couldn’t be heard, even if someone happened to be standing just outside the driver’s-side window. But she whispered anyway, and when she continued, a tremor wrapped itself around her voice. “I think someone has broken into our house.”

  There was a heartbeat of worried silence, then Paul asked, “Katie, are you all right? I mean, you’re not in the house right now, are you?”

  “No, I’m in the car, parked on the other side of the street.” She gave the window another swipe with her sleeve and peered again into the dark, soggy night. “It’s the strangest thing. Every light in the house is on.”

  “We turned them off this morning.”

  “Exactly! That’s how I know someone is inside.”

  Again she glanced at the windows that faced the street, scrutinizing them for shadowy figures creeping around inside.

  “Have you called the sheriff?”

  “No, not yet. I wanted to talk with you first.”

  “Call Skip Spencer. He can probably get there before the sheriff. And Kate, I’d feel better if you went over to Livvy’s until I get home. I’m about an hour away. Things could get dangerous. I mean, if there is someone inside...”

  The worry in Paul’s voice made her heart beat even faster. Before saying good-bye, he again urged Kate to call Skip and reminded her to be careful.

  Kate started to dial the deputy’s number, then hesitated, and a moment later, dropped the phone into her coat pocket.

  She stared at the parsonage, an idea formulating. Maybe she should just take a quick peek, see for herself what was going on before making that call. She wouldn’t go inside of course, but if she looked in through the windows, she could at least report what the deputy might find, and if there was an intruder, what kind of backup was needed. She swallowed a smile. Backup? She was beginning to sound like Renee Lambert, Copper Mill’s drama queen and busybody. Renee always came on a bit strong, especially when it involved tracking down “perps” in town, but she meant well.

  Kate slipped from the Honda and closed the door without a sound. Then, creeping across the street, she headed to the master-bedroom window and ducked below the sill. She listened for strange voices, footsteps, or the sound of someone rifling through drawers. But all she could hear was the drip of water off the eaves, so she raised her head and peeked in.

  Every light was on, but nothing looked disturbed. She breathed a little easier: no one was lurking in the corners. At least that she could see. But what about those corners she couldn’t see? She shivered.

  Obviously, one peek wasn’t enough.

  She told her heart to stop its nervous pounding, took a deep breath, and headed off to inspect the rest of the house. She came to the kitchen window, easing her head above the windowsill to peer in, then crept to the living room sliding-glass doors. She was careful to stay in the shadows as she looked inside. Nothing out of place. No one creeping around. Just those mysterious lights.

  Shivering now from the rain, she quickly headed around the back of the house to her studio. Again, all the lights were on, even the magnifying-arm lamp over her worktable.

  She was just turning toward Paul’s office window when something caught her attention in the studio. A large manila envelope was propped against the base of the lamp. She quickly dismissed any idea that an intruder had placed it there; Paul often left articles and notes he wanted her to read propped in the same place.

  A bitter-cold wind
had kicked up, and the slant of the rain stung her face. Kate pulled up the hood on her coat and slogged through a muddy flower bed along the side of the house until she reached Paul’s office. She held on to the windowsill, propping her chin on her hands, and peered inside. His desk was neat and clean, the polished wood top reflecting the light from his desk lamp.

  She backed away from the window and thought about her options: call the deputy and then go to Livvy’s for the night or muster her courage and check out the inside of the house to see who had been there. Or who might still be there. After all, she hadn’t been able to look in the closets or examine every nook and cranny.

  It took her half a heartbeat to decide. She trotted across the street to her car, grabbed her handbag and keys, then hurried back to the front door before she could change her mind.

  Seconds later she was inside. She hung her raincoat on the coat tree in the corner of the entry hall, slipped off her boots, and looked around. Even if the lights hadn’t signaled the intrusion, she would have known. There was a strange scent in the air she couldn’t identify.

  She first went to the kitchen. Everything was in its place—except for a water glass on the counter by the sink. Whenever she left for the day, she always made a point of leaving the dishes washed and put away. Curious, she walked across the room, picked up the glass, and held it up to the light. There were no bright red lipstick marks to give away the culprit the way it happened in the movies. She started to put the glass down, then she raised it to the light again. This time she spotted a smudge—a lip-shaped smudge—from something like Vaseline or lip balm. She gave the glass a sniff. It had a distinct vanilla scent.

  Her heart skipped another beat, and her hand trembled as she placed the glass on the counter. Her imagination was working overtime. Paul might very well have grabbed the glass for a drink before they left that morning. She’d never known him to use scented lip balm, but there was always a first time.

  She went from room to room, flicking off lights after she was satisfied nothing had been disturbed. She had only three rooms left to examine—the master bedroom, the guest bathroom off the hallway, and her studio.

  Her heart raced as she headed to the bedroom. She walked first to the closet and, holding her breath, pulled open the door. Nothing looked disturbed. She reached for the clothes on Paul’s side, pulling back his suits to make sure no one was hiding behind them. She almost laughed. What would she do if she found someone there?

  After a quick check behind her clothes, she crossed the room to the dresser to check her jewelry chest.

  She and Paul didn’t own anything of great value, but she did have a few pieces of jewelry she adored. She opened the lid and, hand shaking, lifted out a small cameo and pearl brooch that had belonged to her grandmother. Grateful tears stung her eyes as she closed the lid.

  Almost afraid to breathe, she left the master bedroom and moved swiftly toward the guest bath. The door was closed, which made her pause and whisper a quick prayer. Then slowly, she pushed the door open and looked inside. At first nothing seemed to have been disturbed. Then she noticed dried bubbles around the bar of soap in the soap dish. It appeared someone had washed his or her hands with the new bar of soap she’d put out that morning. On the counter beside the soap dish was a crumpled hand towel. She was certain she’d hung it up fresh out of the dryer that morning. There was also a blue facial tissue in the wastebasket. She always bought white.

  Her hand trembled as she reached for the light switch and turned it off, then she thought better of it and flipped it on again. Someone might still be waiting, hiding somewhere she hadn’t thought to look. She shivered and glanced toward the front door, mentally measuring how quickly she could get there should the intruder appear.

  One room left. Her studio.

  Kate started down the hallway, then halted midstep. What about the linen closet next to the bathroom? It was large enough for a person to hide in. And then there was that closet in the studio, an even bigger and better place for hiding.

  Not being one to put off unpleasant tasks, she went first to the linen closet and flung open the door. The towels and sheets stowed within had been untouched.

  Still, something didn’t feel right.

  She backed away from the closet and turned toward her studio. Her breath caught as she stared at the door. It had been closed but not by her.

  Maybe Paul was right, and she should have called the deputy. Maybe she should turn around right then and there and head to the front door as fast as her feet could trot.

  But she couldn’t ignore the curiosity that always seemed to edge out common sense.

  With one hand wrapped around the cell phone in her pocket and her heart skittering more erratically than ever, she slowly opened the door.

  Chapter Two

  Kate peered inside the room before she entered. Then she tiptoed over to the cabinet and pulled open the doors, one by one. The shelves were filled with stained-glass scraps and tools, as well as a few partially completed pieces. Nothing had been disturbed.

  She turned to the worktable to flip off the light. The large manila envelope she’d seen from outside the window caught her eye again. She sat down on her stool and picked it up.

  Her name had been typed in the center in crude, smeary letters, obviously from an old manual typewriter with a worn ribbon.

  She tore open the seal and slid a thin stack of papers out of the envelope. On top was a letter typed on the same machine.

  Dear Missus Hanlon,

  This letter missive is to tell inform you that you have been chosen to perform asdf a three five very important tasks. This isjust the first. Paye close attentttion attention to the enclosed list and follow the instructions without fail to the letter. Time is of the utmost importance. If you do not follow the instructions itmay be too late to remedie remedey remedy the for everyone.

  Don’t forget: YOU ARE BEING WATCHED!

  Sincerely yours,

  Kate stared at the letter, blinked, and read it again. Was this some sort of joke? Who was watching her, and why? And why did he—or she—change his mind about the warning and cross it out?

  She flipped to the second sheet of paper. It read:

  Clementine Jones—indigo, violet, and whitefor wisdom, comfort, and

  Peace.

  Lorna Easterwood—teal,white &beige,for trust, optimism, and calm.

  Stephen Easterwood—purple,gold, and aqua for masculine

  ,leadership truth, &courage

  Loretta Sweet—silver,magenta, and green for flexibility, newbeginningss,

  Caroline Johnston—maroone, pink, andblue for bravery,strength, &

  Friendship,& unsinkable spirit &&self exesteem.

  Samuel Gorman—peach for harmony, blue 4 wisdom, violet 4

  intuition.

  Kate reread the list, then her eyes widened when she came to the note at the end of the list:

  DO NOT ATTEMPT TOo. PLEASE Do NOT ATTEPMPT TO TELL THE RECIPINTS ON THE LIST BEFOE THEIR “GIFT” ISREVEALED.

  She went over the names again, trying to make sense of the list and the colors, then she flipped to the third page.

  On it was a roughly sketched pattern for a stained-glass project: a votive candleholder in the shape of a six-inch bowl; an angel, with its wings outstretched, gracing the entire circumference of the candleholder.

  At the bottom of the page was another typed note:

  THE COLORS ON THE PRECEeDING PAGE -2- ARE FOR tobe used FOR EACH OF THE RECIPIeNTS (as Indicated)OF THIS CANDLE HOLDER. FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW. Remember: time TIME IS OF UTMOSt IMPORTANce. ALSO REMEMBER; reveal this list to no one.

  Time is of utmost importance. Considering the strange words, Kate read through the list again, puzzling over the strange request for angel votives. The list seemed innocent enough, but the idea that someone had entered her house to leave the envelope put her on edge. She put down the envelope and left the studio, closing the door behind her.

  She headed to the livi
ng room and turned on the gas lighter in the fireplace, watching as the flames quickly engulfed the sycamore and orangewood logs, which crackled and poofed and steamed.

  The fire comforted Kate, and she allowed herself to relax, convinced that whoever had been in her house was now gone. Her favorite time of the day was first thing in the morning, after her devotions, when she and Paul sipped coffee and read the paper together. But she also loved spending evenings in front of the fireplace, she in her robe and slippers and Paul in his sweats, sipping hot cocoa and chatting about everything from world events to the latest happenings at Faith Briar Church. After all these years of marriage, Paul was still her best friend, and they never ran out of things to talk about. She thought of their mornings and evenings as the perfect bookends to each day. She always looked forward to their time together, but tonight she needed his comforting presence more than ever.

  With the fire crackling, she headed to the kitchen to pull out the fixings for hot cocoa. She believed in making it from scratch and took pride in the real chocolate flavor and fresh whipped cream. A sprinkle of nutmeg or cinnamon on top was the crowning touch.

  She glanced at the clock. Paul would likely be home within the next half hour. Just enough time to slip a tray of oatmeal cookies in the oven to accompany the cocoa. She had stirred the ingredients together that morning before leaving for her workshop. It was a new recipe made with dates, dried cranberries, blanched almonds, and a dash of almond extract. Paul had licked his lips in anticipation as he watched her stir the dough.

  As she dropped dollops of dough onto a cookie sheet, she puzzled over the strange note and envelope. She didn’t know whether the angel pattern would work, but someone had gone to quite some trouble to create a sense of mystery, even going so far as “demanding” that she do what appeared to be a good deed.