The Notorious Mrs. Wright

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.