to know. Her job was to find out what the general public couldn’t, to force charities, especially religious groups, out into the open. To make them stop hiding behind the cross.
An idea for a new investigative series popped into her head. After the hurricane, she’d worked day and night for weeks investigating distributions to the relief effort, uncovering any number of discrepancies, misappropriations and downright theft of public monies. She wasn’t too popular with the local authorities but a couple of her stories had been picked up by the networks, and since then the station allowed her free rein.
She was a watchdog, a guardian for the people. Her viewers depended on her to shoot square. To help them choose the best groups to support and those to avoid. Gretchen took this responsibility very seriously. She and her family had once been duped. She didn’t want such a thing to happen to anyone else.
The hair rose on the back of her neck. Had it already happened to Maddy?
“Would you mind if I visited Isaiah House?”
Blue eyes blinked at her. “Everyone is welcome at Isaiah House.”
“I meant in an official capacity.” She watched him closely, eager to see if the suggestion rattled him. It didn’t.
Serene as a blue sky, he said, “We’re an open book.”
Satisfaction curled through Gretchen’s mind. If Ian Carpenter and his mission had anything to hide, she and everyone else in Louisiana would soon know.
Chapter Three
“Ian, I think you’d better come outside.”
Ian looked up from his desk at the heavyset young woman standing in the door of his ground-floor office. Tabitha was one of the day counselors who worked with the female residents. He thought her name was appropriate since the Biblical Tabitha had also been a servant to those in need.
“What’s up?”
“The newswoman’s here again. Channel Eleven.”
“Already?”
When Barracuda Barker said she was coming to the mission, Ian hadn’t expected her quite so soon. The funeral was only yesterday.
He pushed up from the cluttered desk where he’d been praying about the runaway he’d taken in last night. After two hours of negotiation and countless calls to other agencies for social services Isaiah House couldn’t provide, he’d gotten the girl and her parents to agree to one more try. He only hoped things worked out this time.
As he came around the desk, Tabitha glanced down at his feet. “Another new pair of shoes?”
Ian held out the pristine white runners for inspection. “Like ’em?”
“Cool. How many pairs does this make?”
That was a question Ian would rather not answer. He gave away his shoes to the needy on a regular basis, but every time he passed a shoe store he came home with a new pair. All his friends teased him about his one vice, but try as he would, he couldn’t seem to stop buying shoes.
“Don’t start about the shoes.”
Tabitha laughed. As a licensed Christian counselor, she teased him more than anyone, claiming his shoe buying indicated some kind of psychological disorder. He laughed, too, but sometimes he wondered about the compulsion.
They crossed the dayroom together and headed for the door of the converted home. The room was quiet by Isaiah House standards. This time of day, some people were in Bible study groups. Others were in classes or at jobs secured with the help of Ian and his small staff. Nobody sat idle around here for long.
Ian stepped out on the Southern-style porch. Sure enough, the Channel Eleven News van was parked at the curb and the blond reporter hopped out, photographer in tow. As he walked toward the mission the photographer aimed his camera at Ian and started shooting.
Ian stifled a groan. He really didn’t need this today with all he had to do. Hopefully, after a few questions, she’d be on her way. After all, yesterday after the funeral when they’d parted ways, he felt they’d made progress, at least to the point of mutual respect.
“Gretchen,” he said cordially when she approached the porch.
Her loose-fitting white jacket swung open as she extended her hand. Beneath she wore a tank top the color of his mother’s daffodils.
“Reverend.”
Ian let the emphasis pass, studying her with an intensity she couldn’t miss. Though carefully applied makeup covered the dark circles, nothing could erase the hollow expression in her eyes. She had no business working today.
“How are you?” And he meant it. How was she after yesterday?
Her face closed up. “I’m here on business, not to be counseled.”
Ouch. Apparently, his thought that they’d come to some sort of mutual understanding yesterday had been way off base.
Gretchen not only didn’t want to discuss the loss of her sister, she wanted to forget that she and Ian had ever talked. Even if he couldn’t understand her reasoning, he could deal with her rejection. Preachers felt the cold shoulder all the time. The woman had been through a nightmare this week, and she needed time to grieve. For her own sake, he hoped she would give herself a break. Grief was a powerful emotion that took a toll sooner or later.
He held open the door and stood aside to let her enter the cool interior of the mission. As she passed, a gentle waft of lemon, like the magnolia in the courtyard, tickled his senses.
When the occupants of the dayroom saw the camera, most of them scattered like startled mice. The one or two who remained stared in open curiosity.
“I take it you’re here on that official business you mentioned yesterday,” he said.
Her pixie face turned upward. Yesterday’s predicted sunburn tinged her tilted nose and the crest of her cheekbones. As he’d noticed the morning Maddy died, Gretchen was a small woman with fragile looks. But those looks were deceiving. Unlike her sister, Ian suspected the reporter’s backbone was solid steel.
“Channel Eleven is running a new series on compassion ministries. We’d like to include a piece on Isaiah House.”
“Hatchet job or fair story?” He didn’t know why he’d asked that. He wasn’t usually defensive about the mission, but something in her attitude today made him uneasy.
“Everything depends on your cooperation. The more open you are with us, the better we can represent you to the public.” As she spoke, Gretchen’s gaze raced around the room, missing nothing. Not that there was all that much to see. Couches and a table, a tiny reception area with a pay phone, a TV and a few plants potted and tended by Roger. “The one thing I can promise you is to be fair. My stories are honest portrayals from the inside of ministries. The public has a right to know what they’re supporting.”
“I can’t argue that, but I’m not really prepared for anything extensive today. I’m pretty busy.” He glanced at his watch. “Could we schedule another time?”
Her
