The Notorious Mrs. Wright. Fay Robinson

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