The Notorious Mrs. Wright

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.