Gone to Glory

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Lori Dorsett let her rented sedan coast to a stop close to the curb on the eastbound side of Oliver Street. Without looking left or right--or at the map of Glory, North Carolina, on her lap--she knew that she'd parked opposite Founders Park and up the street from Snacks of Glory, "the home of the Glorious SOGgy Burger." Another fifty feet or so and she'd be able to see the garish red-and-yellow neon hamburger glowing in the restaurant's window. "You do good work," she murmured happily, confident that she'd learned the lay of the land. She'd memorized the locations of the small town's landmark buildings: the town hall, the police headquarters, the fire department and the Glory National Bank. And of course, Glory Community Church. Immediately after breakfast, Lori had driven every one of Glory's fifteen major streets at least three times--and many five or six--but in a random pattern to relieve suspicion should anyone be watching. Like the lady cop on Main Street who decided that I was casing the bank. Lori chuckled. It was too bad that she didn't have her camera with her at the time. Lori would have loved to capture the look of disappointment on the cop's face when she realized that Lori was a tourist in Glory and a guest at The Scottish Captain. Later in the morning Lori had driven through Glory again, visiting the town's best-known historic sites and buildings to take pictures, actually going to the trouble of unfolding her portable tripod and snapping shots from various angles. Photography was the heart of Lori's cover. She'd supposedly just finished a year-long certificate program in travel photography at the Chicago Institute of Graphic Arts. Her camera--a professional-quality Nikon digital single-lens reflex--was larger and more expensive than most tourists would carry. And she had a complete assortment of lenses and filters and memory cards--exactly the sort of extravagant camera system that would be owned by a well-heeled recent divorcÉe striving to transform a hobby into a new career. Founders Park would be Lori's last "photo shoot" of the day. She climbed out of the car, crossed Oliver Street and set up her camera in front of the statue of Moira McGregor. The visitors' guidebook that Lori had nearly memorized explained that Moira had been married to Duncan McGregor, the leader of the group of Scottish ÉmigrÉs who had settled Glory in the spring of 1733. "I'll be with you in a flash, Moira. Hold that silly grin while I make a phone call." Lori surreptitiously scanned her surroundings. There were no trees in her immediate vicinity and the buildings on the south side of Oliver Street were fairly low, yielding a clear view of the sky. She switched on her satellite telephone and dialed Kevin Pomeroy's direct line in Chicago. "A happy Tuesday morning to you, Mizz Dorsett," a cheerful male voice boomed. "How's life in the Southland?" "Quiet. It's the middle of a workday here and there are maybe a half dozen cars on the street." "What were you expecting? I warned you that Glory is a clone of Mayberry." "You were right, Kevin. I keep waiting for Andy Griffith to walk around the corner. I've seen ten different women who look like Aunt Bea." "Where are you staying?" "Where we want me to be--The Scottish Captain." "Ha! I told you we didn't need to risk making a reservation." "You were right again. The place has six bedrooms. They won't fill up until the summer." "Watch out for bedbugs." "To the contrary. The Captain is a grand old house--lovely inside. The sort of place you should take Francine for a romantic weekend." She laughed. "The town has a definite charm about it, too. There are several excellent restaurants, I've been told." "Uh-huh. I'm sure that the art museum is inspirational, and I'll bet