Antiques Fate by Barbara Allan Page A

Also, it’s condescending to the reader.)
    ( Vivian to Editor : What if I don’t define the words?)
    ( Editor to Vivian : What if the reader doesn’t know them?)
    ( Vivian to Editor : Now, who’s being condescending?)
    Well, doesn’t that take the wind out of my spinnakers (sails)! I hadn’t even gotten around to inchoate, attenuate, or punctilious . Well, no one can say I’m obdurate or recalcitrant. And to those of you who know the meanings of some or even all of those words, let me say (in the spirit of Old York), “Jolly good show!”
    I asked Seabert, “Have you no surveillance cameras to help you catch the scallywag?”
    He shook his head. “There’s a village ordinance against any mounted cameras—they say it detracts from the architecture.”
    Had the man been more pleasant, I would gladly have informed him of the Internet spy site I frequent that specializes in tiny undetectable cameras. On the other hand, I must admit I was rather keen to see what our mysterious jokester would come up with next (inveterate Scrabble fan that I am).
    So I kept that to myself and merely bid Mr. Falwell a fond farewell.
    While it was too early for the shops to be open, I could think of one place certain to have its doors unlocked: the Episcopal Church. As they say, the house of God is always open for business.
    When Brandy was a little girl, she and I did a Sunday morning sampling of every church in Serenity, to give the child a broader view of the rainbow of religious possibilities. So I knew a little something about the Episcopal Church.
    Organized in the States after the American Revolution, the Episcopalian sect had broken away from the Church of England, which required allegiance to the king (George III, at the time). The church might be viewed as a somewhat unlikely combination of Catholic and Protestant, retaining certain trappings of the former but embracing the latter’s lack of allegiance to the pope and the ability of its clergy to marry.
    Old York Episcopal was located behind the inn, just a short walking distance down a verdant path called Canterbury Lane. As the ancient stone structure came into view, nestled in a grove of thick oak trees, I took a quick intake of air. The church seemed at once sinister and beautiful—sinister by way of disrepair and decay, beautiful thanks to simplicity of design.
    While I would categorize the building’s architecture as Gothic—due to its tall, narrow, pointed windows and single tower with spire—its lack of ornamentation had roots in the Anglo-Saxon period. A graveyard positioned behind the church fanned out conically, older headstones in front, mostly leaning, newer ones in back.
    I approached the old oaken door with its rusted hinges, gave the iron handle a tug, then stepped into a small, dark vestibule. Immediately I heard the flapping of wings—no, not angels—as a bird flew over my head, and I ducked as it soared out. I waited a moment to see if any more feathered friends might be seeking freedom before I closed the door with a thud.
    A soothing male voice said, “They’re coming in through the bell tower, I’m afraid. Turning into some of my most regular parishioners.”
    I turned to Father Cumberbatch, the handsome young priest attired in a traditional black suit with white clerical collar, not the more casual garb some younger clerics assume between services.
    â€œI hope you don’t mind, Father,” I said, “my dropping by for a visit.”
    His smile was pleasant. “Mrs. Borne, a pleasure. Are you Episcopalian?”
    As I say, in my quest for a perfect spiritual fit, I’d attended Methodist, Presbyterian, Baptist, Catholic, Episcopal, Jehovah’s Witnesses, among other churches, including Serenity’s synagogue. But I’ve never worn the label of any.
    â€œI’m still seeking, Father. One day, perhaps, I shall find.”
    â€œSeeking is a