Читать книгу The Notorious Mrs. Wright - Fay Robinson - Страница 10

St Augustine, Florida

Present Day…

MARILYN MONROE SASHAYED into the restaurant’s dining room, causing Whitaker Lewis to almost swallow his tongue.

She was, of course, only a talented imposter, but if Whit had to swear she wasn’t the original, he couldn’t do it. The face—perfect, right down to the beauty mark. The body—hotter than a two-dollar pistol.

She’d poured herself into the dress. Must have. The glittering flesh-colored number showed off every hill and valley, and man, oh, man what a landscape! Every male over the age of twelve, including himself, had gone slack jawed.

As if a vacuum had sucked out all the air in the place, conversation stopped. Meals were forgotten. Tips lay unclaimed.

In the sexy baby-doll voice that was the real Marilyn’s trademark, her look-alike began to coo “Happy Birthday” to a red-faced but clearly enthralled man a few tables away. A server in a 1950s suit with slicked-back hair and a Clark Gable mustache brought out a cake. Another, dressed as Lawrence of Arabia, set out dessert plates.

“Happy Birthday, Mr. President of GXA Electronics…” She let out a sultry sigh and it raced straight down Whit’s nerve endings to his groin. “Happy Birthday to you.”

The crowd exploded with applause. Marilyn threw kisses in response. She stayed a moment to talk with the man and his companions, then wound her way through the tables to speak briefly to some of the other customers. Finally, after Whit felt he’d waited an eternity, she reached him.

“Hi, honey,” she purred, still in character. “Enjoying your dinner?”

“Very much.”

“I’m so glad.” Her mouth moved in that pouty way Marilyn’s had. Thousands of tiny beads on her dress sparkled, creating waves of light that made her skin seem to shimmer. “You’ve eaten here before, haven’t you? I rarely forget a handsome face.”

“I’ve been in the last couple of nights.”

“I thought so. Local or tourist?”

“Tourist.” He pulled the name of a state out of the air. “Michigan’s my home. I’m here for a few days’ vacation.”

“That’s nice. Would you like a little something sweet to finish your meal? Besides me, I mean.”

He chuckled. “What do you recommend?”

“A sinful, hard-glazed custard we call the Blonde Bombshell. Eating it is the second-best experience in the world.” She winked. “If you know what I mean.”

“Yes, ma’am, I do. Is it your recipe?”

“Oh, honey, I don’t cook. I tried once but the spaghetti kept falling through the grill.” When he threw back his head and laughed, she playfully tweaked his chin. “You’re very cute. You come back and visit again before you go home, okay, Michigan?”

“I’ll do that.”

As she sauntered off, he enjoyed the pleasing sway of her backside for a moment, then searched her right arm. A red, puckered scar at her elbow marred her otherwise perfect flesh. Last night, Cleopatra had had the scar. The night before, Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.

Reconciling the voluptuous fair-skinned sex goddess with the dark Egyptian beauty and the innocent Kansas teenager was hard, but Whit couldn’t deny the evidence. The same woman had played all three characters. And she hadn’t simply dressed up those other nights. She’d played Elizabeth Taylor playing Cleopatra. She’d played Judy Garland playing Dorothy.

Illusions. The name fit the place well. From the outside, the tall Spanish-style building with its red-tiled roof, stucco walls and curved archways looked like a hundred others in the nation’s oldest city. Inside, though, history merged with elegance and a touch of whimsy. While the integrity of the historic structure seemed to have been retained, movie posters decorated the back wall. Along each side, display cases held original costumes and props from Academy Award–winning pictures like Platoon and West Side Story.

Every employee portrayed a movie, music or television star or a star’s character. The Flying Nun, complete with habit, had shown him to his table. Mad Max in black leather had taken his order. Marilyn, though… She’d gone beyond simply putting on a costume. She’d somehow become the character. Sensational was the only word to describe her.

Whit finished his fish and ordered the dessert Marilyn had recommended.

“How was it?” his waiter asked when he’d scraped every last drop of custard from the dish.

“Excellent. So was the flounder.”

“The head chef is Spanish and is known throughout Europe. We were lucky to get him.”

“He’s very talented.”

“We think so. Anything else I can bring you? More iced tea? Wine? We also have a variety of coffees.”

“Just the check.”

“Your meal’s on the house, sir. Compliments of the owner. She said to say you’re the first person in weeks to laugh at one of her stupid jokes, and she thanks you.”

Whit stopped in the act of reaching for his billfold. A knot the size of a baseball formed in his middle.

“The woman dressed as Marilyn Monroe is the owner?”

“Yes, sir. Susan Wright. She’s fabulous, isn’t she?”

“Terrific.” Whit smiled and nodded, but inside he was cursing his own stupidity.

What an idiot he was. For three days he’d been trying to get a look at the elusive Susan Roberts Wright. Tonight she’d been standing right in front of him and he hadn’t even known it.

He went ahead and pulled his billfold from his shorts, took out a single bill and handed it to the young man. “At least I can give you the tip.”

The kid’s eyes bulged at the amount. “Sir, do realize that’s a fifty and not a five?”

“Keep it. A young guy like you can always use a little extra spending money, can’t he?”

“Sure can, sir. Thanks.” The kid quickly slipped the money into his pocket.

Whit motioned for him to bend down so he could speak and not be overheard by the other customers.

“Maybe you can help me out with something.”

“I’ll try.”

“When might I see your boss not in costume? One guy to another, I’d like to know what she looks like in real life.”

“I gotcha. Our male customers ask that a lot when she plays Marilyn. Cleopatra, too.”

“I’ll bet they do. When can I catch a glimpse?”

“Well, during the day. Early afternoon. She lives upstairs, so even when she’s not working the floor she’s around here somewhere, usually in the office.”

“Dressed in street clothes?”

“Yes, sir. She only puts on a costume for the dinner crowd, six to eleven.”

“Describe her, so I’ll know who to look for.”

“Oh, five-four, short dark hair. Average size. Average appearance.”

“Short hair as in…like a man? Above the ears? What?”

“Like—” he glanced around and then nodded toward a woman in a red blouse three tables down “—that lady’s over there. Short but feminine. She wears it hooked behind her ears. And she’s about the size of that lady, too.”

“I take it, then, she isn’t really built like Marilyn Monroe.”

He chuckled. “No, sir, that must be padding she puts on. When she’s herself, she doesn’t seem that, uh…”

“Curvy?”

“Exactly.”

“How old would you guess she is? Mid-forties?”

“Mmm, younger. Her son helps out around here sometimes and he’s maybe sixteen or seventeen. I guess she’d have to be at least mid-thirties, but I wouldn’t imagine she’s much over that.”

“Married, huh? Just my luck.” Whit frowned and tried to act like a disappointed suitor.

“Oh, her husband’s dead, I think.”

“Recently?”

“No, I heard Tom say once that he never knew his father, so I assume Mr. Wright must’ve died when Tom was small or before he was born.”

“Are they natives of Saint Augustine?”

“That I don’t know. We opened a little over six months ago. Before that, I’m not sure if Mrs. Wright and her son were living here or somewhere else. Now, Ms. Townsend—she was born here, although I believe she somehow knew Mrs. Wright before.”

“And Ms. Townsend is?”

“The catering manager.”

“And her first name is?”

“Abby.”

“Thanks, son, you’ve been a big help.” More help than the young man realized. The lady needed to warn her employees about giving out personal information to customers.

Whit knew the answers to most of the questions he’d just asked, but it helped to hear what Susan Wright was telling others.

A sleight-of-hand artist was about to perform in the courtyard. A placard on the table said the restaurant offered entertainment Friday and Saturday nights and supplied catering for weddings and parties off-site and on-site in private rooms. Coming in, Whit had ambled through the gift shop off the lobby where coffees, teas, wines and the house cookbook and salad dressing were for sale.

The dining room was packed tonight, as it had been the other times he’d been in. Business seemed to be thriving.

He decided to skip the show and head over to his room to follow up on the couple of new pieces of information he’d just learned. He glanced around before leaving, but Susan Wright seemed to have disappeared.

Tomorrow he’d try to get a better look at her. Maybe then, after two months of following dead-end leads, crisscrossing the country and driving himself insane, he could finally start wrapping up this case and get his life back to normal.

OUTSIDE, THE HOT JULY AIR rushed to envelop Whit and brought a fine sheen of sweat to his skin. He inhaled the scent of the pink tropical flowers growing near the restaurant’s porch. Across the palm-lined boulevard, a barrier island blocked his view of the Atlantic Ocean, but the Intracoastal Waterway and the bay it ran through seemed to have turned to silver in the fading light. He decided to walk back to the motel along the wide concrete seawall.

The town, he’d discovered during the past two nights, didn’t wind down at dark. Although the colorful street “trains” that shuttled visitors to attractions ceased at six o’clock, there were plenty of horse-drawn carriages. People milled about, browsing in shop windows or taking walking tours of haunted houses. Music and laughter poured from the bars and restaurants.

His motel was only two blocks away. Inside his room, he sat on the bed and checked his messages. He returned a call to his Pittsburgh office, knowing that even if his assistant wasn’t in, someone probably would be.

Cliff Hodges, one of his investigators and a good friend, picked up.

“Cliff, I didn’t expect you to answer. What are you still doing there at eight on a Friday night?”

“Working. What are you still doing in Florida?”

“Working.”

“Then I’d say we both need to reevaluate our social lives, old buddy.”

“I have no social life.”

“I’ve noticed that about you.”

“Is Deborah still there? She left a message saying an Allen Morrow was looking for me, but I don’t know who that is.”

“She’s long gone, but I was here when she took the call, and I talked to Morrow briefly. He identified himself as an assistant district attorney from Los Angeles County. Says he’s met you before and kept your business card.”

“I don’t remember him. Did he say what he wants?”

“He needs us to locate a missing witness in a case he’s prosecuting. His in-house staff hasn’t come up with anything. He left his private number and wants a call back as soon as possible.”

“Hand him off to Cordell in the West Coast office, and let him handle it.”

“I tried. I told him you were out of town, but he still wants you to call him. He’s insistent. Apparently he’s prosecuting the murder of a cop, and he’s afraid his star witness might not turn up to testify. He needs a little hand-holding from the boss.”

“Too bad he didn’t call last week when I was out there working on this case.” Whit checked the time. Just after five o’clock in California. “Okay, give me the number. But in the morning, fill in Cordell so he can take over. And ask Deborah to run the usual checks on Morrow to make sure he is who he says he is.”

“Will do. When are you coming back?”

“I don’t know. I’m following up on a few things and they may or may not pan out.”

“Are you still on the same case?”

“Afraid so.”

“Pro bono, right?”

“Right. The client’s a friend of Wes Campbell’s at the Pittsburgh PD. As a favor to Wes, I said I’d dig around and see what I could turn up on the guy’s runaway sister, never dreaming I’d still be doing legwork two months later.”

“Must be a bugger to keep you tied up so long.”

“It’s a cold case.”

“How long has she been gone?”

“Twenty-three years.”

“Jeez, Whit, that’s not cold, that’s frozen.”

“Yeah, the time gap’s not making it any easier to find her, that’s for sure. The case is fascinating, though. I can’t remember when I’ve worked on one that frustrated or excited me as much. I’m having to resort to some old-fashioned investigative techniques to get what I need. The computer’s been pretty helpful, but it hasn’t helped me as much as the face-to-face interviews.”

“What do you have so far?”

“I’ve traced her whereabouts in the early 1980s to Los Angeles and Hollywood, where she was living on the streets for a few years and calling herself by various names, but then her trail suddenly ended again. I’ve found no public record anywhere of her after that under her real name or any alias she’s used. No social security activity, no driver’s license, nothing.”

“Sounds like she’s dead. Could be she ended up an unidentified Jane Doe.”

“That’s what I figured at first, but I’ve come to believe she’s just good at covering her tracks. Maybe as good as anyone I’ve come across.”

“She must be good if you can’t find her.” He chuckled. “So somebody’s finally outfoxed the master, huh? If you ever do find her, maybe you need to give her a job training our investigators in the Witness Location division.”

“Don’t laugh. That’s not a bad idea. She’s already taught me a few things. Every time I think I’m close to figuring out what she’s done to hide, I have to do a one-eighty and backtrack.”

“But you think now you’ve got a good lead on her?”

“More like a hunch. I think I know what she did. My gut tells me I may even have found her, but I don’t have proof, just some scraps of information that are adding up.”

“Your hunches are usually solid.”

“Yeah, and I believe I’m solid this time, but I’m a long way from where I need to be to take it to the client. I think she’s calling herself Susan Roberts Wright, the widow of William Wright. Someone’s been moving from state to state under that identity for the past several years, but I can’t find any marriage certificate or death certificate for the supposedly deceased husband, and the widow’s age and description change as often as her hairstyle.”

“Can the client ID?”

“That’s what I’m hoping. I’ve been checking local records the past few days and trying to work myself into a position to get photos I can show him.”

“Have you set up surveillance?”

“Yeah, but the lady apparently doesn’t have any more of a social life than you and me. I haven’t been able to catch her outside of the restaurant she owns. She hasn’t even used her car in three days.”

“What about her home?”

“She lives above the business and has a separate entrance in the rear. I’ve backed off from watching that. I can’t do it without being pegged as a prowler.”

“So what are you doing?”

“Playing tourist. I decided I might have better luck getting close to her if I walked in the front door and ordered dinner like everyone else.”

“Sounds as if you’ve got a handle on it.”

Whit snorted. “I sat two feet from this woman tonight and we carried on a conversation, yet I still can’t tell you exactly what she looks like.”

“Huh? I don’t understand?”

“Long story. I’ll explain when I get back.”

“Okay, buddy. Let me know if you need help. I’m available.”

“Thanks, Cliff.”

He hung up and called Allen Morrow in California, talking briefly to the man about his criminal case and reassuring him that the San Pedro office of Lewis Investigations could locate his witness.

After a shower, he unlocked his laptop computer and opened his file on Emma Webster. The blasted woman had begun to occupy his thoughts day and night, and he didn’t like it. He had other cases he was working on, cases that could benefit from the time and attention he was giving Emma, but they didn’t interest him at all.

She had aroused his curiosity. And tonight—if the woman he’d talked to was indeed Emma—she had aroused much more. He’d gotten worked up over a body made of foam rubber. Damn, that galled him.

Well, it served him right. He knew better than to let his emotions cloud his perspective, especially over a woman with her background.

She’d been a criminal and maybe still was, and Whit didn’t like criminals. He’d spent most of his life catching them, or at least locating them. He’d been a special agent with the FBI for ten years before opening his own national firm seven years ago.

He had offices in four states and a hundred and fifty top-notch investigators, all experts in a particular field: corporate security, encryption, terrorism, insurance fraud, witness location. His personal specialty was finding people. And he was very good at it. Usually.

This case baffled him. He could understand why Emma had run away as a child, but most runaways didn’t bother to stay hidden after adulthood. Many actually attempted to reconcile with their estranged parents and find their siblings.

Emma had been close to her brother. She had to expect that one day he would seek her out. So why was she still running? And from whom?

He clicked on the photo he’d scanned of her, and brought it up on the screen. The quality of this shot was poor, and in it she was only twelve, but there weren’t any others, not even from school. She had dark hair and sad, dark eyes. The facial resemblance to her brother had been strong back then, and still should be.

When he’d started this investigation, Whit had used a software program developed for the bureau to age Emma’s features by twenty-six years, to see what she might look like now at thirty-eight. He brought up that altered photo.

Beside it, he opened the most recent driver’s license photo of the woman calling herself Susan Wright, maiden name Susan Roberts. She wore glasses in this one, so he couldn’t tell much about the eyes. “Hazel” was the color listed, rather than brown.

The facial bone structure seemed similar to the first photo. The hair was long here, though, not short as in the aged photo of Emma or as Susan Wright supposedly wore her hair now. But it occurred to him that she could be wearing a wig. And the nose…different somehow. Longer. Maybe a bit wider. She didn’t look forty-five, as her license said.

He brought up a third photo he’d acquired only yesterday by courier. This one, a black-and-white, was from the 1973 yearbook of Marsville High School in Virginia, where the real Susan Roberts had been a sixteen-year-old student at the time. He used the software to colorize it and age the photo twenty-nine years, to her current age of forty-five. He replaced the long hair with short and gave her brown eyes.

Two bits of information stood out in his mind as important: One, Emma Webster and Susan Roberts had both been runaways. Two, the woman calling herself Susan Roberts Wright had named her son John Thomas, the same first and middle names as Emma Webster’s brother. Coincidence? Maybe, but he didn’t think so.

Emma had been proficient with disguise, just like the Susan Wright he’d talked to earlier tonight.

The software allowed him to analyze the three photos using a sixty-five-point system of comparison. He did that, but the results were inconclusive.

He leaned back in the chair, put his hands behind his head and studied the different faces. Sometimes experience was more valuable than technology.

His gut was speaking again. What it said disturbed him. The “widow” Wright might or might not be Emma Webster, but she clearly wasn’t the real Susan Roberts. So what had happened to Susan? And more importantly…did the woman impersonating Susan have anything to do with her disappearance?