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The Notorious Mrs. Wright
Fay Robinson


The notorious Mrs. Wright–and the resourceful Mr. LewisPrivate investigator Whit Lewis is pursuing a case that has taken him to St. Augustine, Florida. His assignment: track down a woman named Susan Wright. A woman whose real name, he believes, is Emma Webster.Emma's family hired him to find her. She ran away as a teenager more than twenty years ago, leaving behind a trail of confusion and deception, of false identities and unanswered questions. Now "Susan Wright" lives in St. Augustine with her son, Tom; she owns a successful restaurant called–fittingly enough–Illusions.Whether she's Susan or Emma or both, it's part of Whit's job to get to know her; it's not part of his job to fall in love.









The waiter had described Susan Wright as “average” looking


She wasn’t. “Damned pretty” was more accurate.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

He walked over to the desk. “Whitaker Lewis. We talked briefly at the restaurant last night.”

“Yes, I remember.” She cocked her head and smiled, changing from “damned pretty” to “beautiful.”

“Look, I apologize for barging in like this, but I have a confession to make. I asked the waiter about you. He said you’re no longer married.”

That statement seemed to fluster her. “No, my husband died several years ago. Why?”

“I was wondering—would you like to take a walk? I haven’t had much of a chance to look around the town. Seeing it with a beautiful woman would be better than seeing it on my own.”

She blushed. “Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Lewis?”

“Trying to, Mrs. Wright, but apparently not doing a very good job of it.”

“I appreciate the compliment and the invitation, but I don’t really know you. I don’t go out with men I don’t know.”




ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Fay Robinson lives in Alabama, where she enjoys gardening and playing with her Jack Russell terrier, Dex. Her first Superromance novel, A Man Like Mac, won the 2001 RITA


Award—the most prestigious award in romance publishing—for best first novel. Watch for her next book, Christmas on Snowbird Mountain, in November of this year.

You can e-mail Fay at fayrobinson@mindspring.com or write her at P.O. Box 240, Waverly, AL 36879-0240. She invites you to visit her Web site at http://www.fayrobinson.com or to check out the Friends and Links section at http://www.eHarlequin.com.




The Notorious Mrs. Wright

Fay Robinson





www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




Dedication


For my mother, who was fearless.

And for my husband, Jackie,

who chauffeurs, supports and rarely complains.




Acknowledgment


My deepest appreciation to:

Steve Rose and other officials and residents of the

City of St. Augustine, Florida, for their help and hospitality;

Ms. Pat Barrett of the Renaissance Cleveland Hotel

in Cleveland, Ohio, for helping me visualize the hotel

and main entrance as they were in 1979; Dave Manelski,

the Cleveland guide at About.com for his childhood

recollections of the historic Public Square area at

Christmastime; and Ms. Morgan Acker, lately of Hong Kong,

for her help with Spanish translations.

Any errors are mine and not theirs.


Dear Reader,

The Notorious Mrs. Wright, the story of former con artist Emma Webster, was great fun to write. First, I had the chance to bring back Emma’s unusual family from my last book, Mr. and Mrs. Wrong. Her brother, Jack, sister-in-law, Lucky, and father, Ray, are some of my favorite characters. Second, I was able to incorporate my love of great food, movies and archaeology into this plot.

On the following pages you’ll find romance, intrigue, drama and also a bit of comedy as two mismatched people fall in love. This story is about illusion, but also about the heroine looking beneath the facade she has created to understand who she really is. Love and happiness with handsome investigator Whitaker Lewis await Emma if she can forgive herself—and the thieving father who caused her to run away from home at fifteen.

The setting for The Notorious Mrs. Wright is St. Augustine, Florida, the oldest city of continuous residence in the United States and one of the most romantic places on earth. Having visited there a couple of times in the past ten years, I felt it was a fabulous place for Emma to set up her restaurant and display her remarkable talents with costumes and makeup.

I hope you enjoy learning what happened to Jack Cahill’s (aka J. T. Webster’s) big sister from my earlier book.

Sincerely,

Fay Robinson




CONTENTS


PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE




PROLOGUE


Cleveland, Ohio

December, 1979

I DIDN’T FEEL RIGHT doing it, but Ray said I had to if me and J.T. wanted to eat anytime soon. Ray was broke—again. All he had in his pocket was a couple of tens and some change. And he still owed last month’s rent on the rat hole we called an apartment.

“Please, Emma?” he asked, saying a couple hundred would be enough for groceries and to have the phone turned back on. “One pocket sting. Somethin’ to hold us over till I score big.”

Slouched next to me on the back seat of the beat-up Chevy, my kid brother let out a low snort and mumbled, “When pigs grow wings,” pretty much what I was thinking but was too chicken to say out loud. Like me, J.T.’s tired of all the bull. Ray’s been promising to pull a major scam as long as the two of us can remember, boasting he’ll get rich and find us a decent place to live, even quit thieving for good.

I gave up on “rich” years ago. These days I’d settle for just owning clothes that haven’t been worn by somebody else.

“C’mon, Princess,” Ray coaxed. “Ain’t nobody better than you at makin’ a drop.”

He smiled his thousand-watt smile, then reached back to pat me on the knee, a fatherly pat I guess you’d call it, but Ray Webster’s never been much of a father to me so I try not to think of him that way. Maybe once he could win me over with his syrupy talk. No more. I’m fifteen going on fifty, too old to fool.

Besides, I hate it when he calls me Princess. He only does that when he wants something.

Disgusted, I turned to the window where my breath fogged a circle on the cold glass and kept me from seeing out. I didn’t care. Nothing outside to see anyway except sad old buildings and dirty snow piled up on the curb.

We’d parked on Frankfort at the edge of the warehouse district, a place I wouldn’t be caught dead in after dark and don’t like visiting even in daylight. The area’s not any crappier than our neighborhood, but the old-lady disguise I had on made me an easy target for muggers.

That’s called irony, I think, but my grades in school suck, so I’m not sure.

The outfit is an old-timey dress, a coat with a fake fur collar and a hat with a big brim that sorta tilts back and has a short veil that dips across one side of my forehead. Pretty cool. The clothes came straight off the rack at the Salvation Army, but they’re classy, elegant even. I don’t look like I’ve stepped out of a mansion on Millionaire’s Row, but you wouldn’t think I was a bag lady, either.

I’d slipped the dress on over my sweatshirt and rolled-up jeans, then stuffed the middle with more clothes to round me out and give me a saggy top. Gloves cover my hands and forearms. Dark stockings hide my legs.

Since I needed wrinkles, I’d made a life mask out of foam latex to put over my face and neck. That part’s always a drag, two hours of baking, painting and gluing, but when I’m done—wow! There’s a gray wig over my dark hair. Artificial teeth force my mouth into a slight pucker. With the glasses and a walking cane, I look like somebody’s sweet, plump granny.

I call my lady Mrs. Abercrombie. She’s my favorite character, but I have others as good: a Puerto Rican woman in her forties, a twenty-something dancer, a fat maid with an attitude. The psychic and fortune-teller I do would fool anybody.

Pretending is fun. Anything’s better than being me. The bad part is ripping people off. And knowing I’m helping Ray, of course. I’d rather poke pencils in my eye than do that.

“Emma, Emma, Emma,” he said with an exaggerated sigh. He shook his head. “What’s got into you lately, girl? Ain’t like you to be so contrary.”

“I just don’t want to do it, Ray. Please, can’t we go home? I’m freezing to death.” Twenty-seven degrees, and the heap of rust that had brought us downtown didn’t have a heater. “Why can’t you lift some wallets instead?”

“Now, Em, you know this works better. Put a hand in a man’s pocket and even if you get away with it, he’s goin’ to the cops. Scam him, though, and he’ll keep his mouth shut. He’ll figure it’s his own fault for bein’ stupid.”

“Get Vinnie to play my part.”

“We need Vinnie to take the call. J.T. here can’t do it. He’s too little.”

J.T.’s twelve and already near big as Ray, but I knew what Ray meant. We needed a man’s voice to pull this off because of the supposed call to Cowell and Hubbard jewelry store a few blocks east on Euclid Avenue. A kid talking on the other end of the phone wouldn’t work.

Ray had asked his friend and sometime-partner Vinnie DeShazo to be that voice. We’d spent most of the day at Vinnie’s apartment, where I’d put on my granny clothes and made my mask.

His wife, Estelle, is the one who taught me about latex appliances and junk like that. She has a job in a funeral home making smashed-up dead people look right again. Creepy job, but the makeup works great for disguises. She lets me have all the free samples she gets from the salesmen, too, so usually I don’t have to fork out any money.

We’d dropped Vinnie off at a public phone before parking so he could wait for my call. He’d play the boss of the swindle.

A cap, a boss and a catch. Three people. That’s what Ray likes to use. As the cap, Ray’d find the victim and set him up for the sting. Vinnie as the boss—or in this case the voice—would make everything seem legit. Then, I’d make the catch. But in short cons like this, the cap can also play the catch. I told Ray that’s what he should do, and to leave me out of it.

“Now, Emma, I’ve taught you better than that. Who’s a mark more likely to trust, a strange man or a kindly grandma?”

“A grandma.”

“That’s right. Besides, I don’t have your touch. I might get caught again. You wouldn’t want that, now would you?”

Maybe I would, but I didn’t say it. The only times I could remember being happy were the months Ray’d been in jail.

“We could pawn something,” I suggested, desperate.

“Can’t. Ain’t got nothin’ left to pawn or fence. I’ve hit rock bottom, Princess. That’s the truth. And you know today’s the fifteenth.”

Yeah, I knew. Keel Motor Company paid its sales-people on the fifteenth and the thirtieth. Mama would expect Ray to come home with money from his check and some kind of Christmas bonus. Only…Ray hadn’t worked for Keel in almost two years.

I closed my eyes and tried to send myself somewhere warm and safe, where I didn’t have to decide between hurting my mama and breaking the law. I was almost there. A log fire burning in a cozy house…my toes stretched out toward the hearth…

A rumbly noise yanked me back to the cold car. J.T.’s stomach growled loud enough to wake the dead. We both giggled, not that it was funny but laughing helps sometimes when you’re stuck in hell.

He was hungry. Cripes, I was hungry! At least during the week we got a free lunch at school, but this was Saturday afternoon and all we had at home was a dented can of peas and a box of raisins. Knowing Ray, he’d throw them together and call it dinner.

I sagged against the door, unsure of what to do. If I helped Ray, at least me and J.T. would get a decent meal out of him for once.

But I’d hate myself, too. I always did.

Then again, I had to think of Mama, suffering in that tiny basement apartment with its peeling paint and leaking pipes. We shared the floor with the building’s ancient furnace and the coal pile. The heat went up. The dust came down.

If I could scam more cash than Ray needed to buy groceries and pay the worst of the bills, Mama might give in and get some medicine for the hurting in her chest.

J.T. slipped his hand in mine and gave it a little squeeze, his way of letting me know he understood the fight going on inside me and whatever I decided was fine with him. My brother can be a jerk sometimes, but mostly he’s pretty great.

“Okay, I’ll pull the stupid drop,” I told Ray with a hard look. I forced him to give one of his tens and swear to use the other to feed J.T. at the restaurant.

“Twenty minutes after we go in, you come,” he reminded me as we got out of the car and headed south on foot. “I need time to pick us one.” A mark, he meant. Some traveler in an expensive suit or an out-of-town businessman we could fleece for whatever money and jewelry he had on him.

As we walked, we left behind most of the run-down buildings. Two blocks over, we came to Public Square and found it packed with people—mamas and daddies shopping or who’d brought their kids to see the Christmas decorations. Higbee’s and May’s department stores had tried to outdo each other with wreaths and bows and lights. Red, green and blue bulbs even glowed from the leafless branches of the trees.

“Look!” J.T. said, pointing. He ran about laughing, taking in all the sights. A fake gingerbread house stood in one part of the square. In another was a manger scene. Music spilled out every time a door was opened.

For a few seconds I let myself believe we were a family and that Ray had brought us to see the animated figures in Higbee’s windows. Stupid. But I couldn’t help it. Those Christmas carols fried my brain, I guess.

I stopped and gazed at the fragrance rings on display at a boutique. Big and gaudy, they had a fake “jewel” that opened, and inside they held a soft wax perfume you could rub with your finger and dab on. All the girls at school had one. I thought they were about the neatest things I’d ever seen.

“Pretty,” Ray said, coming up beside me.

“Pretty hokey,” I said, as if I wouldn’t wear something like that in a million years.

Lesson Number One in Emma Webster’s Book of Survival: never let Ray know what you like or don’t like. If he knows you, he can hurt you. That’s why the Emma he sees isn’t real. She’s a character, like all the others I’ve created.

Ray handed over a small sack, one of the props I’d need, and I stuck it into a pocket I’d sewn into the inside of my coat. He’d chosen to play the game at The French Connection, a restaurant inside a ritzy hotel called Stouffer’s Inn on the Square. Ahead of us, the hotel rose up like a sideways E and seemed to disappear into the clouds.

“You remember the number where Vinnie’s at?” Ray asked me. I nodded. “Don’t let the mark get too good a look at the real number on the receipt or we’re sunk.”

“I won’t.” I’ve pulled this at least ten times, although never here. The scam’s a basic pigeon drop, but my disguise gives it an Emma Webster twist.

In my head I rehearse what I have to do. After I sit down in the restaurant, I wait until no waiters are around, then slip the sack out of my coat and pretend to find it where it might’ve been overlooked for a few days by the cleaning staff—pushed down in the seat cushion of the booth, behind a plant or trapped by a table leg…something that fits the layout and feels right. That part I play by ear.

Inside is a box wrapped in fancy paper and a sales receipt for a $15,000 bracelet from Cowell and Hubbard. Funny that nobody ever wants to open the box and see what’s really inside, but Ray says that’s why they deserve to get bilked. Eight hundred years this swindle’s been around, and dumb smucks still fall for it every day.

Then I show the box and the receipt to Ray and the mark and ask them what to do. Ray pooh-poohs telling the restaurant manager, if that’s what the mark suggests. Call the jewelry store first, he says. Report the package found.

I ask for a phone to be brought to my table. I pretend to call the store and identify myself as Mrs. Wilbur Abercrombie. What I do instead is dial Vinnie.

When I say I’ve found the bracelet, I’m supposedly told the owner has authorized a $1,000 reward for its return. Being an old lady, I get shaky at hearing that. I hand the receiver to the mark to get the information. Vinnie repeats the stuff about the reward. The store will pay it when the bracelet’s returned, Vinnie tells him.

I do a real acting job here. I fan my face and pat my heart. Such a large amount, I say. Oh, my! Since I have arthritis in my hip and can’t walk too well, would one of them return the bracelet? I’ll split the reward with him.

Ray quickly says he will.

But, I point out, I’m trusting a stranger with an expensive piece of jewelry, and I’ve given my name to the store owner. If the bracelet should disappear, wouldn’t I be in trouble?

As a show of good faith, Ray offers to give me his wallet to hold while he’s gone. He takes it out and opens it, then fakes embarrassment. He’s low on cash, he explains. The wife’s taken his money and credit cards and gone shopping. He doesn’t even have his driver’s license on him. He left it in his hotel room.

The mark always jumps in at this point and offers to return the bracelet, seeing his chance to make a quick $500 and cut Ray out of the deal. Ray congratulates us on our good fortune and splits. He does that because being alone with me makes the mark feel okay about leaving his goodies behind. No old lady is going to rip him off, right?

The mark hands over his wallet for me to hold. He leaves with the package. In the fifteen or twenty minutes it takes him to walk to the store and realize he’s been scammed, we’re all long gone in the other direction—with his dough.

Bait, hook, reel in. Disappear clean. That’s how it works. At least it does when Ray takes time to plan the sting properly and scout out the right mark.

This day, though, I felt uneasy. Quick stings with random victims were risky.

“This is it for me,” I told Ray as we came to the hotel. “I’m not helping you again. You’ve got to give up griftin’.”

“Straight life and me don’t get along too good.”

“I know, but you’ve got to try.”

“I will, Princess. Honest. When I hit it big I’ll retire and…”

He went on and on about everything he planned to get me when that happened—nice clothes, a big house, my own car. I stopped listening. I wanted so much to say what was in my heart, to admit I was ashamed to be his daughter. But I couldn’t.

I hate Ray. I mean it. I really do hate him. The problem is…I love him a little bit, too. And that makes me not want to hurt him, even with words.

“Let’s just do this,” I said, cutting him off.

We rounded up my reluctant brother and they left me outside the hotel. As planned, I waited twenty minutes, then hobbled into the lobby on my cane. Wonder replaced my uneasiness. I had to clamp my mouth shut before my false teeth fell out. I’d never seen such a place—marble walls trimmed in gold…curtains the color of wine…arches shooting up two full stories.

A grand staircase led to a huge fountain. Around it people sat on overstuffed couches listening to a man playing a piano and a woman a harp. A sign read that high tea would be served at four. I didn’t know what that was exactly, but it sounded elegant.

I took a hard left down the hall to the restaurant. A guy with a fancy suit and an even fancier accent led me across carpet that was so thick we didn’t make noise when we walked. He asked me where I’d like to sit.

“Over there would be lovely,” I answered, pointing to a spot near Ray and J.T. Ray drank coffee and talked with a bald man at a nearby table while J.T. wolfed down a sandwich. With a scratch of his chin, Ray let me know Baldy was my target.

A waiter wearing white gloves helped me sit. I took off my coat and placed it next to me, then nodded to Ray and the mark. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” they both said.

Opening the menu, the part of me that’s most like Ray came out, skipping the meat and the vegetables and everything practical and going straight for the desserts. I ordered a cup of tea and something called crème brûlée—warm custard with a browned spun-sugar glaze and raspberries. The waiter served it in a delicate china dish with a silver spoon. Heaven.

At that moment, surrounded by those pretty things, I was as happy as I’d ever been. I felt…I don’t know. I can’t say important, because that’s not it. But maybe, for once, I felt not worthless.

I could have stayed there forever but, of course, I was only halfway through eating when Ray signaled me to hurry up. Cursing silently, I put down my spoon and made the drop. Baldy took the bait. I set the hook and reeled him in. When Ray and J.T. left me alone with him, I got his goodies: six hundred in cash and two credit cards.

But then, everything fell apart. Baldy got suspicious. Or maybe he wasn’t so dumb. He had a friend with him, he said, another engineer in town for a convention. Why didn’t he call the room and have his friend come down and keep me company while he returned the bracelet? I smiled and said the only thing I could— “A grand idea.”

Baldy called Friend. Friend came down and Baldy whispered something to him I couldn’t hear. Baldy paid his bill and left with the package. I figured…fifteen minutes. That’s all the time I had to get away, and Baldy had probably told Friend not to let me out of his sight.

I laid my ten on top of my lunch bill, where the waiter would find it. Skipping out on the ticket and having the management after me wouldn’t be very smart right now. I told Friend I needed to be excused. “Ladies’ room,” I said. As expected, he popped to his feet to escort me. I acted flattered. “What a sweet boy you are.”

The bathrooms, I remembered, were between the restaurant and the lobby. I held on to Friend’s arm with one hand and my cane with the other. Slowly I hobbled down the corridor with him. Coming in, the walk had seemed short. Now it felt five miles long. The minutes ticked by. Sweat trickled down between my breasts.

Once inside the bathroom, my problems weren’t over. Two women stood at the mirror. Calmly I went into a stall and pretended to do my business. I waited and waited. I didn’t have much time left. Baldy would be getting to the store any minute. Leave! I wanted to scream at the chattering women.

Finally I heard the door open and the women go out. Racing, I ripped everything off, down to the shoes and my own jeans and sweatshirt. The gloves I kept on for the time being, so I wouldn’t leave fingerprints on anything in the cleanup.

I pocketed the teeth. I didn’t know if the cops could tell a person’s identity from spit, but I wasn’t taking any chances. Hurriedly I put the wallet with the credit cards in the right pocket of my jeans, along with four hundred of the cash. The other two hundred went into the left pocket.

But what should I do with all the clothes? The pile before me seemed huge. No way could I wear them or hide everything on me.

Stay calm, Emma. Use your brain.

If Friend and Baldy decided to squeal, I didn’t want to leave behind any evidence. But I might have to. I looked around, then up. And smiled in relief.

A minute later I strolled out the door. I’d gone in an old woman. I came out teenager. Friend barely noticed me.

With my heart beating a million miles an hour, I left the hotel and ran all the way to the car. By then I was a wreck, shaking not only from cold but from fear. J.T. wrapped me in his coat.

“Where are your granny clothes?” Ray asked.

“In the ladies’ bathroom.” I explained how I’d almost been caught. “I pushed up a tile and hid them in the drop ceiling.”

“Smart girl. But did you get the money?”

“Yes, I got your stupid money!” I took out the wallet and slapped it into his hand. “Didn’t you hear me? I almost got caught!”

“So next time we’ll be more careful.”

Next time? Something inside me broke then. I saw the truth, the real truth, not the one I’d made myself believe for the past few years. Ray wouldn’t change. He couldn’t change. He was a con artist and a thief and he’d never be anything more. If I stayed with him, that’s all I’d ever be, too.

We picked up Vinnie. Him and Ray used the credit cards to get all the available cash off the accounts. Ray was happy. We hadn’t made his big score, but after Vinnie’s cut, he had a little over a thousand dollars. I figured that would last him…two weeks, tops. Maybe less. He’d play cards with his “business associates” and buy them too many drinks. He’d blow it, like always, on stupid stuff we could do without.

Sure enough, he told J.T. on the way home that he’d get him the dog he’d been wanting and also the hockey equipment. He promised us a television. Did I want a pair of leather boots like the ones Estelle had on that morning?

Food was nowhere on his list. Neither was rent. Or paying the overdue utility bills. Or money for medicine.

He tried to talk to me, but I was so disappointed I couldn’t stand to look at him. I stared silently out the window, remembering what had happened to me that day. In only one hour, I’d had the best experience of my life, and also the worst. I’d never forget either.

The pain stayed with me. I couldn’t shake it. Two nights later, after everybody had gone to sleep, I pulled out wigs and clothes from behind the loose wallboards in the bathroom. The masks that went with the disguises were hidden there, too, along with nearly three hundred in cash that had taken me two years to save. I’d known this day would come eventually, and I’d prepared for it in secret.

I felt guilty about having squirreled away the money, but it was my stake. Without it, I had no chance at freedom.

The letter I left for Mama on the kitchen table said I was sorry about having to leave. I was sorry. Grace Webster raised me as best she could. I wasn’t running away from her, but from my life. I prayed she’d understand that.

Inside the letter I stuck the two hundred dollars I’d held back from the scam. My baby-sitting money, I lied. Use it to go to the doctor.

Writing the other note, the one for J.T., was harder. It tore out my guts. I had to do this. Please forgive me. And always remember who loves you best.

Stuffing some clothes into a suitcase, I slipped out of the apartment dressed as a male college student. The series of rides I hitched took me as far as Missouri by the next day. There, I used the second disguise to erase my trail again, becoming a forty-year-old woman.

I bought a bus ticket and headed someplace warm and safe. And, God forgive me the most for this last part…

I never looked back.




CHAPTER ONE


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?




CHAPTER TWO


“SUSAN! DIDN’T YOU HEAR me calling?”

Emma jumped. As always, a fraction of a second passed before she associated herself with the name. She closed the textbook and casually slid it under the ledgers on her desk, hoping her action hadn’t called attention to it.

She’d tried all morning to study, but one problem after another had broken her concentration—late linen, a smoking motor on the ice machine, two kitchen assistants who’d shown up late. Saturday was always the worst day of the week.

But she couldn’t complain. She adored this place. After years of waiting tables and washing dishes in every cheap dive from California to Maine, after years of scraping by from paycheck to paycheck, she was living her dream.

She owned this restaurant. She had money in the bank. The respectability she’d craved all her life was within her grasp.

And soon—she hoped—she could fulfill another dream, that of receiving her high school diploma. And before Tom, who’d be a senior when he started back in the fall. She’d worked in secret for several months to prepare for the equivalency exam.

“What’s wrong now, Abby?” She’d asked not to be disturbed for a couple of hours.

Abby stood in the office doorway with her hands on her hips and a look of panic on her face. “Houdini’s loose in the kitchen.”

Emma sighed. Not again. She was going to strangle that stupid bird. “Please tell me he hasn’t gotten into any food preparation areas.”

“No, he flew right into the storage room, but that crazy Spaniard you hired is threatening to fricassee him for lunch.”

“Great. Exactly what I need today.”

“Really, Susan, he’s impossible.”

“Who, the parrot or the chef?”

“Both. At the moment, I’m not sure which one of them is crazier. The bird’s squawking insults, and Santiago’s waving a very large knife. Did Tom teach the bird Spanish? If he wasn’t so gorgeous, I’d say boot his butt out the door.”

“Who? Houdini?”

“No, silly. Santiago.”

Emma often felt she was missing something in conversations with Abby. Like…understanding.

She walked to the wall and punched the button on the intercom to her apartment. “Tom? You still up there?”

“Yeah, Mom. Just walking out the back door to go to work.”

“I need your help for a second. Houdini’s gotten out of the aviary and made his way down here somehow.”

“Ah, sh—”

“Watch your language, young man.”

“Sorry. Be right there.”

Emma went with Abby through the kitchen to the storage room and found chaos. Santiago Chaves, their young, brilliant but sometimes volatile chef, cursed and waved a meat cleaver at the gray parrot running nervously back and forth along the top of a shelf filled with sacks of flour.

Twenty or so kitchen assistants crowded the door, but were wise enough to stay out of Santiago’s reach.

“¡Basta ya! I will wring your skinny neck! I will chop you into pieces and serve you with garlic sauce.”

“Call the cops!” Houdini said, and flew to the top of a shelf across the room. “¡Como quieras!”

“I’ll make your day,” Santiago vowed, grabbing hold of the support and trying to shake the bird down. “I will make this your last day. ¡Madre del amor de dios! ¡Este es un manicomio!”

Emma rushed forward. “Tom’s on his way to catch him, Santiago. Please, put down the knife before you accidentally hurt yourself or someone else.”

“Susan, you said this would not happen again. You promised Santiago.”

“I know, and I’m very sorry. We’ve been keeping the upper door on the stairway closed. He must have come down on the dumbwaiter.”

“Yes, and last week it was that…that giant lizard riding up and down.”

Oh, great. She hadn’t known about that. “Tom’s iguana was down here?”

“Yes. Santiago open door to get dirty dishes, and is hissed at. Heart nearly stop.”

“I’m sorry. He probably got a little scared. Rambo’s usually very gentle.”

“But I do not like this…Rambo. And that one—” he pointed the cleaver at the bird “—I hate. He is menace. Santiago cook him like squab, ¿no? Stuff him with bread crumbs and almonds.”

Houdini did his imitation of a police emergency siren, then bullets firing. “Hold it, scumbag,” he said. “¡Policía!”

“¡Maldición!” Santiago cursed. “Do you hear? He mocks me.”

“He isn’t mocking you,” Emma explained, gently taking the weapon from his hand. She slipped it behind her back to Abby. “Houdini mimics sounds and phrases he hears, and it doesn’t matter what language they’re in. He gets lonely when we’re not home, so Tom leaves the TV or the radio on for him. He’s hooked on police dramas this month. Last month it was old comedies.”

“Birds and lizards do not belong in kitchen.”

“I agree.”

“Birds inside are…how you say…un presagio malo. Bad omen.”

“I promise Tom will fix both cages this weekend so the bird and the lizard can’t bother you again. All right? Am I forgiven?”

“Hmph! Must give thought.”

Houdini shrieked an ear-splitting “Dial nine-one-one” and Emma was tempted to get the cleaver back from Abby and use it on the bird herself.

Thankfully, Tom came in and relieved her of the need. He climbed the shelf, spoke a few calming words and Houdini immediately hopped onto his hand.

“I’m really sorry, Santiago,” Tom said when he was back on the floor. “There’s a board propped against the door of the cage and a rock holding it in place, but I guess he knocked it loose or found another way out.”

“It is all right, Tom. Santiago was not so very upset.”

Behind Emma, Abby let out a strangled cough of disbelief. “I’d hate to see him when he is upset,” she whispered in Emma’s ear.

Emma tried to keep a straight face. She turned her head and gave Abby a warning look.

Turning back to Santiago, she made a peace offering. “We can lock the dumbwaiter, if that would help. I don’t mind cooking for Tom. You’re sweet to send up dinner, but I can take care of it.”

Santiago glanced at Tom. Emma thought she saw something pass between them, some private message she wasn’t privy to.

“No, no, Susan. Santiago does not mind making plate for Tom when he asks. Tom is good boy.”

“Are you sure? He can always come down here to eat. Or I can cook for him.”

“No, is okay. Tom promise to keep bird in cage. Santiago fix dinner and send upstairs when Tom want.”

“Thank you. That’s very sweet of you.”

The crisis over, Santiago and his helpers returned to work. Abby, Emma and Tom walked through the kitchen to the hallway.

“You’ve got to make sure both Houdini and Rambo stay upstairs,” Emma warned her son. “Or we’ll have to give them away. Understand?”

“But Mom—”

“No buts. It’s unsanitary for Houdini to even be on this floor, much less near the kitchen.” She began to stroke the bird’s breast, but jerked back her finger when he tried to nip it.

“I’ll make sure they don’t get out again.”

“I’m going to hold you to that.” She reached up and lovingly mussed his hair. He’d shot up like a weed this summer and had gotten so handsome. “Go on. Your boss will be wondering what happened to you. And be sure to close the upstairs door.”

“Don’t forget I’m going to Tony’s after work and staying over there tonight.”

“Will his parents be home?”

He rolled his eyes. “Yes, his parents will be home.”

“Okay, but if you go out, curfew is still midnight.”

“Ah, Mom, nobody my age comes in at midnight! Aunt Abby, tell her, will ya?”

Abby held up her hands. “Sorry, Tom. I’m staying out of this one.”

“Be back at the Parkers’ on time,” Emma told him. “I’m trusting you.”

“Oh, okay,” he grumbled with the kind of long, exaggerated sigh that only a teenager can make. “Are you gonna let me take scuba lessons with Mr. Parker? You promised to think about it.”

“I don’t know, Tom. We’ll talk this week.”

“I’ll pay for them myself.”

“We’ll see.”

“Mr. Parker’s got extra equipment and stuff. I wouldn’t have to buy any. And he’s giving me a great discount.”

“I said, we’ll see. Now scoot or you’ll be late.”

Tom started up the back stairs still grumbling.

Houdini squawked. “This is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tom told him.

Abby laughed, and Emma couldn’t help chuckling, too. She leaned into the stairwell. “And Tom,” she called out. “Before you leave, make sure the TV is set on cartoons or PBS. I don’t think Houdini needs to watch any more Clint Eastwood movies.”



BACK IN HER OFFICE, Emma fixed herself a cup of hot tea and one for Abby, then plopped down in her chair again.

“That menagerie is going to be the death of me. If I’d been smart, I’d have given them away when we moved in here. You know how important this place is to me. Every one of our inspections has been perfect, and I want to keep it that way. No parrots in the kitchen.”

“Even fricasseed and stuffed?”

Emma laughed. “Especially not that.”

“Tom would be upset if you gave them away.”

“I know. Maybe it won’t come to that.”

She’d threatened almost daily to find other homes for the animals, but she’d have a difficult time following through. Tom cared about them. They’d been a bequest to him from Marie Marshall upon her death eighteen months ago. Marie was the same woman who’d earlier given Emma her collection of movie costumes and props.

Emma had kept the collection in storage for several years, thinking Marie would change her mind and want it back. But then Marie had died brutally. She’d surprised a burglar in her Hollywood home and been slashed repeatedly with a knife.

Emma saw no reason to hang on to the items after Marie’s death. She looked into the value of movie memorabilia and found, to her astonishment, she owned a gold mine.

The most valuable costumes she had put up for auction. She used the money to finance the restaurant and create a trust fund for Tom’s education. Those remaining were displayed in the dining room and stored on the third floor. The staff wore imitations rather than the real thing.

Without that generous gift, Emma would still be waitressing, working for tips and soaking her aching feet every night. She felt an obligation to take care of the pets Marie and her late husband Bert had loved. But living with a smart-mouthed bird and a three-foot iguana was beginning to try her patience.

“I see Tom’s still got his heart set on being a navy diver,” Abby said, sitting on a corner of the desk. “I thought he’d outgrow that.”

“Me, too.”

“Has he said anything else about enlisting?”

“Yes, but I told him he’d have to do it over my dead body.”

“Susan, honey, you can’t blame him for wanting to be like his father.”

“I don’t, but he’s got the opportunity now to go to college and make a life for himself that’s far more desirable than the one I’ve given him. I refuse to let him throw that away over an idealized image of a man he never met.”

“You act as if he’s had a terrible life, but you’ve done okay by him.”

“I could’ve given him more.”

“How? By working three jobs a day instead of two?”

“By providing a more stable home. I counted it up the other night, Abby, and in seventeen years we’ve lived in nine different places. I was doing the best I could at the time, searching for better jobs and better pay, but it was hard on Tom to keep starting over in new schools.”

“He hasn’t suffered from it. He has perfect grades. He’s never been in any trouble. Tom’s a great kid.”

Emma smiled, proud of her son’s accomplishments. Tom was the one thing she’d done right in her life. “I know he’s a great kid, but sometimes he zeros in on something and won’t turn it loose.”

“Like his mother.”

“I admit it.”

“Have you talked about this with him?”

“I’ve made it clear that he can’t, under any circumstances, drop out of high school. I want him to get a college degree, too, maybe even go on to graduate school or medical school. He knows I won’t give him my permission to join the navy.”

“Honey, when he turns eighteen in two months he won’t need your permission.”

“I know.” She’d suffered many a sleepless night over that horrifying fact.

Payback for her sins. That was it. The older Tom got, the more he wanted to know about his father and to be like him. And Emma perched precariously atop a powder keg of past lies, waiting for it to explode.

His father hadn’t been in the navy. He hadn’t died during a training dive, as her son and everyone else believed. William Wright was only a fake name on Tom’s birth certificate and a couple of fake photographs over the mantel. He didn’t exist.

“Well,” Abby said, standing. “I need to go check the setups for the Scott rehearsal dinner. Oh, before I do…what happened last night? I’m dying to know.”

“We had a good crowd again. I had multiple compliments on the sleight-of-hand artist, so I’m going to talk to him about performing at least a couple of weekends a month.”

“Oh, knucklehead, I don’t care about that! Tell me about the cute guy. Did he come in again? Did you find out anything about him? Was he wearing a wedding ring?”

“Who?” Emma asked, playing coy.

“Don’t tease me. You know who I’m talking about. Blue eyes and a fine set of shoulders. The one you’ve been sighing over all week.”

“I was not sighing over him.”

“Aha, so you do know who I’m talking about.”

“Mmm, I might vaguely remember a fine set of shoulders.”

She remembered them, all right. And the beautiful eyes. He’d had a nice smile, too, with a dimple on the left side of his mouth that showed when he laughed.

“Did you talk to him?” Abby asked.

“For a few minutes. I told him my spaghetti joke, and he thought it was funny.”

“Lord have mercy. Rope and tie that one before he gets away.”

“He’s from Michigan. Vacation.”

“Oh, no!”

“He’s probably already on his way home.”

“Well, bummer. The good ones are always tourists.”



WHIT TIMED HIS ARRIVAL to avoid the busy lunch hour. He didn’t wait to be announced. While the hostess seated customers, he wandered down the hall past the gift shop and the rest rooms to where he assumed the offices would be.

He carried a camera, just in case Susan Wright went for his idea. And if she didn’t, the miniature camera concealed in the sunglasses sticking out of his shirt pocket would do.

The woman sat alone at a desk in the last office on the right, head bent over a book. She read under her breath.

“If Mary buys three cans of beets on sale at five for a dollar, and Fred buys four cans of beets for twenty cents each but has a coupon for ten cents, which one got the better deal?” She snorted. “Well that’s easy. Neither. Nobody in their right mind eats beets.”

Whit chuckled. She looked up…and blushed.

The waiter had described Susan as “average” looking. She wasn’t. “Damned pretty” was more accurate. He’d also been wrong about the bodysuit and padded parts. Her parts were fine just the way they were.

“Can I help you?” she asked, closing the book.

“Susan Wright?”

“Yes.” She stood.

He walked over to the desk. “Whitaker Lewis. We talked briefly last night. You were kind enough to buy my dinner.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“I wanted to thank you, and to say how much I enjoyed your performance as Marilyn. Your Cleopatra and Dorothy were great, too.”

She cocked her head and smiled, changing from “damned pretty” to “beautiful.”

“How did you…?”

“The scar on your elbow gave you away.”

“Ah.” She rubbed it. “You’re very observant.”

“And you’re very talented.”

“Thank you.”

“Look, I apologize for barging in like this. I hope I’m not interrupting anything important.” He glanced down at the book title: Algebra With An Introduction To Trigonometry.

She bent and put the textbook in a drawer. “No, you’re not.”

“I have a confession to make. I asked my waiter about you last night. He said you’re no longer married.”

That statement seemed to fluster her. “No, my husband died several years ago. Why?”

“I was wondering—would you like to take a walk? I haven’t had much of a chance to look around the town since I’ve been here. Seeing it with a beautiful woman would be better than seeing it on my own.”

She blushed more deeply. Her face was now the color of the beets she found so disgusting.

“Are you asking me out on a date, Mr. Lewis?”

“Trying to, Mrs. Wright, but apparently not doing a very good job of it.”

“I appreciate the compliment and the invitation, but I don’t really know you. I don’t go out with men I don’t know.”

“I promise I’m a nice man.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“My only major vice is being spoiled rotten all my life by three older sisters.”

She smiled at that. “I wouldn’t call that a vice, but rather a lovely way to grow up.”

“Do you have siblings?”

“No, unfortunately, I was an only child.”

“There were times I’d have given anything to be an only child. Now I realize how fortunate I am.”

“Yes, you are.”

“If I can’t interest you in a walk, how about a very public cruise around the bay?”

She hesitated, and for a moment he thought she might say yes. But then she shook her head.

Whit scratched his jaw. God, he was rusty at this. Okay, the lady wasn’t interested. He obviously hadn’t made much of an impression on her last night or today. He should take his photos, excuse himself and be done with it. But to his chagrin, he found he didn’t want to.

He was about to try again when someone came in.

“Oh, Susan, I forgot—”

Whit turned. The woman stopped short. She had wild red hair and more freckles than he’d ever seen on one person.

“Well, hi there.” She grinned widely and extended her hand. Whit shook it. “Abby Townsend. I’m a friend of Susan’s.”

“Whitaker Lewis.”

“Michigan, right?”

He raised an eyebrow in surprise and glanced at Susan Wright. She wouldn’t meet his gaze. “Yes, Lansing.”

“What type of business are you in, Mr. Lewis?”

“Insurance.”

“And is there a Mrs. Lewis?”

“Abby!” Susan sighed with exasperation. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lewis. I’m sure you didn’t come here to be interrogated.”

“That’s okay. I don’t mind, especially if it’ll make you feel more comfortable about me.” He turned back to Abby to explain. “I’ve been trying to convince Mrs. Wright to join me on a short boat ride around the bay this afternoon, but she said no.”

“Oh, Susan, why not go?” Abby asked. “It sounds like such fun. You were telling me only the other day how you hadn’t taken time to enjoy any of the city’s historic attractions. Here’s your chance.”

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“Of course you did.” Abby winked at Whit.

Susan pointed at the door. “Abby—out.”

Abby wiggled her fingers at Whit and mouthed “good luck” before making her exit.

Whit took his sunglasses out of his pocket and acted as if he planned to put them on. He aimed as best he could and snapped a series of photos by pushing a small button on the right earpiece.

He figured this would be his only chance. Susan Wright didn’t appear to be giving in. But her next comment surprised him.

“Is there a Mrs. Lewis?” she asked, charmingly biting her bottom lip. “I don’t go out with married men.”

Whit smiled. Damn, she was attractive! Spending the afternoon with her wouldn’t be a hardship at all, even if it was part of the job.

“The only Mrs. Lewis in my life has been happily married to my father for the past forty-five years,” he told her honestly.

“Promise?”

“Promise. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

He felt the slightest tinge of remorse about that last part. If it turned out she wasn’t Emma, she’d never know that some of what he’d told her today was a lie. But if she was Emma, she’d find out the truth soon enough. Like her, he was a fraud.




CHAPTER THREE


EMMA FLEW UP THE STAIRS to change out of her slacks and into something more casual. Her heart pounded. Nervousness churned inside her stomach.

Like a football player who’d just scored a touch-down, she did a little bowlegged dance in front of the full-length mirror in her dressing room, then laughed out loud at her own craziness. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so light hearted, so excited about anything.

Dating hadn’t been part of her life. She couldn’t even remember a time lately when she’d been affected by a man, had felt a raw, physical awareness of one as she did with Whitaker Lewis. Even being in the same room with him had made her restless and achy, reminded her that she hadn’t had sex in…well, too long.

Nothing could come of this afternoon, but she wanted to go through with it nonetheless. For once, although it was only for a few hours, she longed to be a normal woman and pretend she really was “beautiful” like he’d said. Only one other man had ever called her that, and he’d been a liar.

She was lonely. Admitting it was easy. What harm was there in spending a few hours with someone to erase that loneliness temporarily, even if he was a stranger? None that she could see.

Feeling comfortable with him—that wasn’t so easy. Behind the protection of a disguise she could be sexy with men and say whatever was on her mind. Not so when she was herself, especially when she was attracted to someone.

She sucked in a breath and fortified her resolve.

“You can do this,” she told her image in the mirror.

Now, if she could only believe it.

Hastily she shed her dressy slacks and blouse. She pulled on a pair of white shorts and slipped into a matching top and tennis shoes. Her cell phone went into her pocket in case the restaurant needed to get in touch with her.

Excitement made her want to squeal like a teenager, but thirty-eight-year-old women didn’t squeal, especially thirty-eight-year-old women pretending to be forty-five.

Oh, God, would her age matter to him? When she was twenty and about to give birth to an illegitimate child, borrowing the identity of her twenty-seven-year-old friend had seemed practical. She’d wanted to appear more mature. The ruse had helped keep Tom safe. But now she hated that people thought she was older.

She pushed away her silly insecurities. Whitaker Lewis was taking her on a boat ride, nothing more. Worrying about what he might or might not think of her was ridiculous.

He waited in her office. When Emma walked in, he repeated how glad he was that she’d decided to come. He also took a covert look at her legs and appeared to like what he saw. Her opinion of him went up another two hundred percent.

“Ready, Mr. Lewis?”

“Only if you call me Whit.”

“All right…Whit.” The nickname fit him. “I’m Susan.”

The marina was half a block away, just past the bridge to the island. The boat held about fifty people on two decks. Whit gave her the choice of where to sit, so she chose a table on the upper deck, where they could see better. Once on the water, there’d be a breeze to keep them cool.

Rumblings of thunder told her they could expect the usual afternoon shower, but for now the clouds were to the west and not over them.

The chairs quickly filled with parents and children. The engine started, the boat backed out of the slip and they were on their way.

“Have you taken this trip before?” he asked her.

“No, and I really have been wanting to. I don’t know much firsthand about the city, only what I’ve read or been told.”

“Where did you move from?”

“Mmm…Nevada.”

“Is that where you were born?”

Emma hesitated. Years of hiding out had made her wary of strangers, but the wariness was as much habit as necessity. She had no reason to worry about Patrick finding her now. He’d died years ago. And thankfully, he’d never discovered she’d had a child.

Legal ramifications existed, of course, if anyone realized she wasn’t Susan, but in eighteen years no one had come looking for the dead friend whose identity Emma had borrowed. And from what Susan had told her, no one had cared enough to look for her.

Like Emma, Susan had run away from an impossible situation at home. But unlike Emma, she’d been unable to resist the lure of drugs and prostitution. She’d died of an overdose.

Emma’s foremost concern was Tom. She wasn’t sure what he might do if he learned she’d taken over someone’s life. He must also never learn about his father. He’d never forgive her for the lies.

“I’m sorry,” Whit said in the extending silence. “Am I being too nosy? I’d like to get to know you better, but I don’t want to pry into your private life.”

“No, it’s okay. I’m not used to anyone being interested enough to ask, is all.”

“I find that hard to believe. You’re very attractive.”

“Thank you.”

She liked the way he was looking at her, as if he wanted to gobble her up, but it also made her very, very nervous. How to handle being gobbled wasn’t within her area of expertise.

He was a toucher, too, and that heightened her sexual awareness of him, and her awareness of her own body. Climbing the steps, he’d put a steadying grip on her elbow. Crossing the busy street, he’d held her hand. She’d never known that elbows and hands could be erogenous zones.

Each contact had sent an electrical current racing through her nervous system. Right now that current pulsed between her legs.

Lord! She tried to redirect her focus away from what his nearness was doing to her, but the pull—female to male—overpowered logical thought.

What had he asked? Oh, about her birthplace.

“I’m, uh, from Virginia originally, but I’ve lived different places over the years.”

“And how did you wind up in Saint Augustine?”

“Abby’s responsible for that. We worked together as waitresses a few years ago in a horrible place. The management was crooked. The food was awful. Only two good things came out of that job—becoming friends with Abby and hearing her talk about her hometown. I fell in love with the city sight unseen.”

“So you moved here?”

“Not right away. The opportunity to own my own place only came open for me last year. I wanted to locate somewhere with a moderate climate and thriving tourist trade, but I also wanted a safe, family-oriented community for my son, and preferably something near the ocean, since he loves the water. So, I thought…here’s your chance to live in the town of your dreams. I called Abby and asked if she’d like to help me run a business.”

“She’s your partner?”

“Legally, no, but we’re inching toward that. For now she oversees the catering and she’s fabulous at it. She works with the local bridal consultants and party planners to give customers an event they’ll remember all their lives—costumes, props, scenery, the works. You pick a theme and we can do it. We can dress the staff, dress the customer, dress the guests. We use live centerpieces instead of ice sculptures, too, which is unique.”

“Like what?”

“Oh…models dressed as mermaids reclining on a half shell in the middle of a seafood buffet—that sort of thing. No one else around here goes to that extreme.”

“So these aren’t specific characters like you do in the restaurant?”

“Some are. Some aren’t. It depends on what the customer requests. People love themed parties, especially brides. We can whip up anything, given enough time. I have a whole third floor packed with props and costumes.”

“What are some of the weddings you’ve done?”

“Well, we haven’t done too many yet because we only opened six months ago and weddings take a lot of advance planning, but we’ve done several mystery parties. Those are great fun.” She thought about what else. “Oh, and we did a Gone With The Wind anniversary celebration for an older couple. The hosts dressed as Scarlett and Rhett, and we had a replica of the front porch of Tara. They gave an elegant ball with an orchestra and period dancing and all the guests came in costumes.”

“Not exactly my kind of party.”

“Too cutesy?”

“Yeah. No offense.”

“None taken. My son said the same thing, that it sounded like a ‘chick party’ to him.” They both laughed. “But that’s usual for this kind of event. The woman plans it and the man goes along with it because he loves her.”

“Makes sense.”

“The guests did have fun at that one, though. We got a lot of referrals from it.”

“What kooky ones have you done?”

“Mmm, in October a couple plans to be married in one of the local haunted houses. They want me to dress them as Herman and Lily Munster.”

He grimaced. “That’s way too weird for me.”

“Me, too. It doesn’t fit in with the elegant atmosphere I maintain for the restaurant, but for private parties I try to be more flexible. Besides, it should be fun getting them ready. I haven’t done monsters before. We get a lot of calls for parties with ghost themes, since the city is known for its haunted buildings, but monsters aren’t my specialty.”

“Can you do it?”

“Oh, sure. No problem.”

“Where did you learn your craft?”

“The costumes and makeup?”

“Yes. Where did you study that?”

“I’ve picked up things here and there. I haven’t been to any kind of school, if that’s what you mean.”

“You’re really good for someone who’s not trained.”

She shrugged. “I suppose it’s all that experience playing dress-up as a child.” She realized her unintended pun and almost choked.

“What about your family?” he asked. “Are they still in Virginia?”

“My stepfather, yes. He raised me after my mother died.”

“You’re close?”

“Not much anymore. I visit him a couple of times a year.”

They passed a sandbar where big, brown pelicans sunned themselves.

“Oh, look!” she called out. “How pretty.”

The boat was fully under way now, and the captain had begun his monologue. The star-shaped Spanish fort, or castillo, on the left bank had once helped protect the town from invaders. Whit took photos of the birds and then the fort, moving from one side rail to the other for a better view.

Emma watched, as entertained by him as by the trip. He seemed to find everything interesting and asked a million questions.

She was having fun. She’d started to worry about the storm, though. Lightning zigzagged over the town. The rain fell in a wide, blue sheet in the distance, but was much closer than before.

They made a circle of the bay, then went up toward the island’s lighthouse, painted like a barber pole and topped with a red housing. Whit pointed his camera at the structure. “Great lighthouse.”

“Isn’t it? Abby and I have done a few parties there.”

“Wish we were closer so I could see it better.”

“You have to be on foot to get right up to it. There’s a little park around it.”

“Too bad the boat doesn’t go nearer to shore. The scenery here’s pretty, though.” With the viewfinder still to his eye, he turned the camera toward her and snapped a photo. “Very, very pretty.”

“Why did you do that?”

In rapid succession, he took several more shots.

Exasperated, she held her hands in front of her face. “Whit, would you stop it, please?”

“Okay, sorry.” He put down the camera. “I only wanted to show the men in Michigan what they’re missing.”

“I’m sure they have women in Michigan.”

“Not like you.”

She rolled her eyes at his outrageousness. “Are you flirting with me?”

Before he could answer, thunder boomed overhead. Rain began to pelt them as if a heavenly hand had opened a faucet. Everyone on the top deck squealed and scrambled for the cover of the lower one.

“Come on,” he called out, ushering her down the narrow metal steps. They were among the last people to exit, and all the seats were taken. People crowded between the tables. Whit and Emma could barely get inside.

“Here,” Whit said, pulling her against the back wall. He shifted his hanging camera to his side to keep it from digging into her. His muscular arm came to rest above her head.

Very conscious of his impressive chest, Emma felt intoxicated. The man’s body was made of steel. He smelled good, too. Fresh, like the rain. Little droplets still clung to his long eyelashes. Goodness! Even soggy he looked great.

Bending down, he whispered playfully, “The answer is yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes, I’m flirting with you.”

“Oh.” She stifled a grin. “I’m glad we cleared that up.”

“Me, too.”

“By the way,” she whispered back, feeling very at ease with this man and a bit playful herself. “Your…um…crotch is vibrating.”

“That’s my phone. It’s letting me know I have a message.”

“Ah, and here I thought you were just excited about being close to me.”

He chuckled low. “Well, that, too.”



EVERY WORD THAT CAME OUT of her mouth was probably a lie, but it was such a pretty mouth that Whit had almost convinced himself not to care.

His first priority was to his client, getting what he needed to prove the lady either was or wasn’t Emma Webster, but he found himself forgetting that when he looked at her. She had eyes the color of fine aged whiskey and a perfect little body that, at the moment, was so close he could feel the wrinkles on her shirt.

He wasn’t sure who was emanating all the heat—him or her—but they were in danger of setting the boat on fire.

Needing a distraction, he got his phone out of his pocket and punched in an encrypted password. The call a moment ago had come from his assistant, Deborah. The message on the small display said: Morrow is hinky.

Ah, hell. Hinky was Deborah’s slang for fishy. Apparently something about Allen Morrow of California hadn’t checked out.

He dialed Deborah’s cell phone. “It’s me,” he told her when she answered.

“Can you talk?”

“Having a wonderful time. Thanks for asking.”

She chuckled. “Apparently not. Why don’t I give you the highlights?”

“That’ll do.”

“I talked to one of my contacts in the D.A.’s office in Los Angeles and she’s never heard of an Allen Morrow or an upcoming case involving a cop killing. He’s bogus. The phone number where you reached to him last night is a nonworking one this morning. I had someone check out the location. Vacant office. A guy rented it for a week and paid cash. This joker went to a lot of trouble to talk to you, Whit. Any idea why?”

“I’m thinking.”

The firm had its share of phony calls every month—convicts posing as legitimate clients, stalkers trying to locate victims in hiding, nuts wanting information for one reason or another. More than once he’d had people try to hire him to track down the home address of a movie star or musician. They were convinced the star would become as enamored of them as they were of the star….

Whit always had his staff investigate their respective clients before they agreed to take a case. While it was impossible to be completely certain about anyone through a cursory background check, his prerequisites for acceptance were simple: clients had to be reasonably sane, able to afford the hourly fee of four hundred dollars, not desirous of causing damage to another’s life and they had to be telling the truth.

He personally had three cases going at the moment in addition to this one—two witness traces for a defense attorney and a missing heir for a multimillion dollar estate. Morrow had obviously been hoping to get information on one of those. But which one? And what info?

The last one most likely, because it carried a two-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar finder’s fee. Morrow could be another P.I. trying to beat him out of the money.

Whit couldn’t think of anything he’d told him, though. In fact, Morrow had done most of the talking; he’d offered information instead of soliciting it. He’d been polite, open, professional. Nothing the man had said or wanted had raised the “hinky radar,” as Deborah called it.

“At the moment, I don’t have a clue,” he told her.

“Goldblum case, do you think?”

“That’s the most probable, but I don’t want to make assumptions and miss anything.”

“Then let me follow up and see what else I can find out.”

“Sounds like a plan. Thanks, Deborah.”

He signed off and returned the phone to his pocket.

“Problems?” Susan asked.

“No, nothing major. The office manager needing advice on some claims.”

“Ah, I thought maybe it was one of your sisters missing you.”

“I’ve only been gone a few days.”

“I’d miss you after a few days.” She turned red. “If I was your sister I’d miss you. If I was close to you and I was your sister and you went away for a week. Oh, you know what I mean.”

He chuckled. She was even lovelier when she got flustered.

She moved to get more comfortable in the cramped space, and he groaned inwardly as damp fabric slid against damp fabric. Lord! he deserved a medal for good behavior. He’d had a hell of a time keeping his hands to himself today.

“The rain seems to be easing up,” he pointed out.

She craned her neck to peer out beyond the couple next to them. “Yes, it does. At least it won’t be so hot now. Oh, look, we’re coming up to the marina. Darn it, I guess the ride’s almost over.”

Thank God. He couldn’t take much more of this.

Someone bumped him from behind, pushing him even closer to her. She put her hand against his chest to keep from getting crushed. He looped his free arm around her back.

If they’d been in private and horizontal rather than in public and vertical, he’d be in big trouble right about now. Only sheer will kept his lower body from reacting to the intimate contact.

Oh, hell, he was going to do something crazy. He felt the question rising in his throat. Even though he didn’t want to ask it, he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

“How about when we dock we ride out to the lighthouse or to the beach?”

Damn, now he’d gone and done it. He wanted to kick himself.

Her eyes lit up. “Really?”

“We can have dinner later and you can check out your competition. We could even see a movie after, or go on one of those ghost tours.”

“That sounds wonderful, but I’ve never taken a whole night off before.”

“Then you’re due one. They can get along without you for a little longer, can’t they?”

Whit was walking a fine line. Spending more time with her meant additional opportunities to get information. But it also meant increasing difficulty in retaining his objectivity, already on shaky ground. But a few more hours together probably wouldn’t hurt…maybe.

“Come on,” he coaxed. “At least help me shop for presents for my nieces and nephews. Otherwise my sisters will be mad and they won’t spoil me anymore. You don’t want that on your conscience, do you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then come with me. And let me take you out to dinner. We’ll have a night on the town. Whatever you want to do.”

“All right, but I’ll need to call in and leave word for the manager. Do you think we’ll be back by midnight?”

“What happens at midnight? Do you lose a slipper and turn into Rodney Dangerfield?”

“Maybe,” she said with a giggle.

Lord, it was a sweet sound.

“Late date?” he asked.

That really got her tickled. “Yes, fifteen of them. But they don’t have to wait until the stroke of twelve to turn back into mice, unfortunately.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. I’m being silly. But I really do need to be back by then to make sure everything’s properly closed up.”

“Scout’s honor, I’ll have you home whenever you want.”

“We’re you ever a Boy Scout?”

“Not even close.”




CHAPTER FOUR


TOM WRIGHT loaded the microfilm reader with a roll carrying the April 17, 1984, edition of the Los Angeles Times and fumbled around trying to figure out how to work the machine. He didn’t like hiding what he was up to from his mom or lying about his whereabouts, but she got so freaked out when he asked questions about his dad that he’d decided he’d get his answers another way.

As he’d told her, the bike rental shop had wanted him to come in today and work four hours. But then he’d read an article in the newspaper about this place, a Family History Center they called it, where you could find out about your relatives. He’d asked his boss for the day off and told his friend Tony Parker what he was doing, in case he was late getting to Tony’s and his mom called.

Tom fiddled with the knobs. If he could figure this out, he might actually find something.

He asked one of the workers for help. She showed him how to fast-forward, focus on the pages and move them up and down. The name index didn’t list William Wright, but Tom hoped to find a news story on his father’s accident. The worker suggested he look ahead two weeks in case the navy had delayed reporting it.

He found nothing, not even an obituary.

“Are you certain the date of death is right?” the woman asked.

“Yes, ma’am. My mom gave it to me years ago, but I wrote it down.”

“Do you know what your father’s date of birth was or his social security number? A middle initial would be good, too.”

“No, ma’am, I don’t, but I might be able to get them.”

“That would help. Meanwhile, I know of a couple of databases we can check and some online sources. Let’s see what we can find.”

An hour later, they still hadn’t come up with anything. Tom’s disappointment grew.

“That’s odd,” the lady said. “I would’ve thought we’d at least find newspaper articles. Well, here’s what we’ll do.” She went and got a booklet and handed it to him. “In here you’ll find instructions for requesting your dad’s military records. Those may or may not have the details you want about his death, but they should give you something. One little tidbit often leads to another. Try to fill out as many of the spaces on the form as you can and indicate you want information under the Freedom of Information Act.”

“How much will that cost?”

“The search is free, but they’ll charge you a fee per page for photocopying. They’ll notify you of how much it is before they send the records, though.”

“How long will all this take?”

“Honestly, it can take months.”

“Months?” He slumped in the chair.

“I know that’s discouraging, but they get several million requests every year.”

Tom nodded. Whatever it took, he’d do it.

“Meanwhile, I suggest you talk with your mom and surviving members of your family to see what news clippings and documents they already have. That’s the best place to start with a genealogy project. What about your grandparents, your dad’s parents? Are they still alive?”

“No, ma’am. At least I don’t think so.”

“Did your dad have brothers or sisters?”

“Not that I know of. My mom’s never talked too much about her people or my dad’s. She told me once that her and my dad got married real young and their families didn’t like it too much. They stopped talking to each other. I never met my grandparents. I don’t even know their names.”

“That’s too bad. But much of this information is readily available if you know where to look.”

Tom perked up. “Really? Tell me how.”



EMMA WOULD REMEMBER this afternoon as close to perfect. After the boat ride, Whit retrieved his rental car from his motel and took her out to Anastasia Island. He made her climb all one hundred and ten of the circular steps of the lighthouse, and then coerced another tourist into taking a photograph of them together at the top.

After, they visited the public pier, since he said fishing was one of his favorite pastimes. They sat on the concrete seawall and talked. She asked if he’d been out on one of the charter boats yet.

“A few days ago.”

“Which one?”

“Uh…The Blue…something or other.”

“You don’t remember?”

“Not off the top of my head.”

“I don’t know of one with blue in its name.”

“I could be wrong.”

A couple of hours later, they drove back to the mainland and parked behind the restaurant, then strolled Saint George’s pedestrian walkway, shopping for gifts for his seven nieces and nephews.

Ignoring her pleas not to, he picked a hibiscus flower to put behind her ear and bought silly matching T-shirts with cartoon fish on them that read I’m Hooked on Saint Augustine. He insisted they both had to put them on over their clothes and have another photo taken.

After dark he fed her ribs and took her on a carriage ride through downtown. The slow clop-clop of the horse’s hooves on the street as they rode along was as soothing as soft music.

“You’ve asked about me,” she said, “and now it’s my turn. You’ve told me hardly anything about yourself.”

“Not much to tell. I was born in Lansing. I work with my dad in the office. My sisters live nearby so weekends tend to be a family affair with all of us getting together at my parents’ house. I like to play golf and watch football.”

“And fish.”

“Yeah, and fish. I inherited that gene from my dad.”

“Tell me about your mom. What’s she like?”

“She’s great. She sells real estate, loves antiques and asks me at least once a day when I’m going to do my part to add to her pool of grandchildren.”

“You’ve never been married?”

“No, and I can’t say I’ve ever even been serious about a woman. I work long hours, and it’s hard to sustain a relationship. What about you? Why haven’t you remarried?”

“I never met anyone I liked well enough to spend my life with. And I have a son to consider. His welfare and happiness always come first with me.”

“He’s a lucky kid.”

She smiled. “I’m the lucky one. Being both mother and father has been hard at times, but having a child has been the best part of my life.”

“Can I ask how your husband died?”

“His unit was training off the coast of California at night. The navy said his equipment must have malfunctioned, because he didn’t make the rendezvous. They never found his body.”

“Damn, that’s rough.” He smoothly put one arm around her shoulder and reached over with the other to take her hand, entwining his fingers with hers. Emma didn’t mind.

“How old was your son when his father died?”

“Tom wasn’t born yet. I’d only just found out I was pregnant.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“Tell me about your son. How old is he and what’s he like?”

“He’s talented, smart, handsome and inquisitive, but I guess all mothers think that about their children. For a seventeen-year-old, he’s also remarkably self-sufficient. I guess he’s had to be, with me working nights most of his life. Thankfully, I don’t have to worry about leaving him alone anymore, now that we live above the restaurant.”

“His name is Tom? Isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, John Thomas. He’ll be a senior in high school this year.”

“So you named him for his father?”

The question confused her for a moment. Memories of her little brother nearly closed up her throat. She wondered if J.T. thought of her as often as she thought of him.

“No, my husband’s name was William. I named Tom for…well, a little boy I cared very much for as a child.”

“A relative?”

“No, a friend.”

“Where’s Tom tonight? Will he worry about you not being at work?”

“No, he’s with his friend Tony Parker. I’m sure they’re off somewhere attempting to woo women. That seems to be their primary mission this summer.”

He chuckled. “I remember those years well. Wooing women was always my goal on a Saturday night.”

“How old are you, Whit?”

“Thirty-six.”

Oh, dear. He was even two years younger than her real age.

The carriage finished its loop and dropped them off at eleven-thirty on the bay front across from Illusions. Whit walked her around back, where the double doors were still open and the light barely illuminated the small parking area for staff. The restaurant had closed at eleven but, from inside, the clash of dishes and voices signaled that everyone was still cleaning up.




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