The Notorious Mrs. Wright. Fay Robinson

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