A Sounding Brass (8 page)

“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 able 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.”

Ray smiled and gave her a nod. He was going to make good and sure of that. Especially now that the territorial lines had been
drawn between himself and Fisher. One of Ray’s particular talents, as his sergeant was all too fond of pointing out, was crossing
lines.

* * *

CLAIRE LET HERSELF
into the station and walked into the back, where her office was.

Her office.

She may have had ten years of work experience under her belt, but she’d never had her own office before. Even at the bank,
the most she’d had to call her own was the new-accounts desk. Now she had four walls on which to put up pictures, a desk to
organize the way she wanted it, and . . . a comatose computer.

First things first.

She booted up the computer and scanned the desktop and the program folder. No accounting software. Just Microsoft Excel. She
opened up a document called “2006P&L.xls” and found what appeared to be a list of expenses and accounts receivable, but it
was spotty and far from complete. Not only that, there was no way to organize it for receipts or invoicing or anything else.

Surely they must have something to use around here.

In the library, stuck in among the CDs and record albums, she found a box of bookkeeping software. It was several revisions
old, and when she peered inside, she saw that the CD was missing.

Okay. Think.

She’d have to make a run up to Spokane to the computer store—which was rather like sneaking off to the next town to the liquor
store. But for the sake of her job, she had to do it—and she had no doubt that Luke would back her up if someone spotted her
and started spreading rumors that she was allowing a computer to act as a window of wickedness in the house of the Lord. Besides,
she knew for a fact that Elsie Traynell was running her baby-clothing business over the Internet, and if she could do that,
then Claire could buy software.

But until she got the tools she needed, she could still make some sense of the sticky-note system.

While Toby Henzig’s gentle voice murmured in the background, Claire found a box in the music library that was stuffed so full
of envelopes, invoices, paperwork, and sticky notes that it would hardly close.

“Good grief,” she said aloud. “I hope there aren’t any bills in here.”

She carried it back to her office and began sorting through the layers of paper. Three hours later, a couple of things were
very clear.

One, whoever picked up the mail obviously just dumped it in the box, and whoever had a free moment seemed to rescue the odd
bill and pay it. Probably Toby.

Two, the station’s new programming was probably going to do everything Luke said it would. Claire sat back in her chair and
gazed at the biggest of her piles. Envelope after envelope contained money—checks, wrinkled bills, money orders—and letters.
They asked for prayer, they asked for songs, they even asked for a moment of Luke’s time on the phone to talk over some spiritual
problem. There was more money sitting on her desk than she had ever seen in one place outside of the bank.