The Impersonator by Mary Miley

cheaters, took out his pocket handkerchief, and wiped the lenses deliberately. I waited, my hands folded demurely on the table. It was not I who had called the meeting.
    Mr. Wade asked if my hotel was comfortable. I said it was. He asked if my breakfast had been satisfactory. I said it had been very good. He asked if the train trip from Ohio had been difficult. I said it had been quite uneventful. He asked if I thought Sacramento was a nice city. I said it was charming. Fearing we would all remain trapped in this limbo forever, I departed from plan and spoke my lines.
    “Mr. Wade, gentlemen,” I began, letting my eyes linger on each man’s face in turn as I spoke. “It has been many years since we last met, and I confess I do not remember you at all. I was only eleven at the time and quite dull with grief. You cannot remember me well either, and I suspect I have changed far more than you.”
    This prompted a dry, nervous chuckle that fluttered around the table like wind through dead leaves. I had seized control of the interrogation.
    “I quite understand why you have asked me here, and I am completely in agreement with your intention to make sure that I am, indeed, the same Jessie Carr who ran away seven years ago. Of course, I am not really the same. I am older, wiser, and more appreciative of my home and family than I was as a spoilt child. I am quite ready to answer your questions so I can prove to you beyond the shadow of a doubt that I am not an impostor.”
    There was a satisfied muttering at this speech. One man pulled out a photograph of thirteen-year-old Jessie from the folder in front of him and compared her features to mine before passing it to his right.
    “When and where were you born?” asked a man who looked older than Methuselah. A sadly unimaginative start, but I responded graciously enough.
    “Who were your parents?” asked another. “How did they die?”
    “Where did you go to school?” asked the minister, and I noticed they seemed to be taking turns clockwise around the table.
    “Where did you grow up?” I elaborated a little on that one, although I knew full well embellishment was tempting the Fates. Stick to the questions, Oliver had stressed. No more, no less. Oh, all right.
    One of the lawyers spoke out of turn. “I visited your parents at their home in Florence in 1911,” he said. Uh-oh. That was unexpected. Oliver had been sure no family members had visited the Carrs, but he hadn’t known about business acquaintances.
    “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t remember you. I would have been only seven or eight then.”
    “Exactly. A precocious little lady, too, if I might add. But the house. You remember it?”
    “Certainly.”
    “What do you remember about it?”
    “Let me think. It was in the Via del Corso close to a pretty church, and there was a park very near where we would walk and play outside whenever the weather was fine. I remember that the house itself was quite old. Or so it seemed to me. It had lots and lots of rooms, and stone floors that were cold on bare feet where the rugs didn’t cover them. All the walls had old paintings on them, all of strange people and places I didn’t know, and the ceilings were very high. There was a grand staircase and so many crystal chandeliers I couldn’t count them all. The maids needed a ladder to clean them! I had a lovely room upstairs next to the schoolroom, and my governess was next to that.” I went into eloquent detail about my own bedroom and the kitchen, as it was certain no visitor had been in those parts of the house. My wide-eyed sincerity charmed them. “The entrance hall had a large table with a tall vase for fresh flowers—usually roses, my mother’s favorite. And there were lots of statues of naked people.”
    “Ahem, yes.” He coughed to cover up his embarrassment at my use of the word “naked.” “Nude” was acceptable in polite conversation but not “naked.” I had done it on purpose of course, to fluster him