Ginny

by James Francis Gray

“Keep your voice down,” she chastises and whispers, “This conversation should … should not be discussed in public.”

  We continue to eat in silence. I nod to her from time to time, smile my sheepish grin, and she in turn does the same. I love her beyond reason, although my actions of late would not prove so.

  We finish eating and enjoy another cup of coffee. Helen slips out of her seat and drifts away with the grace of a ballerina, saying, “Tonight.”

  I stand, drop several bills on the table to cover our lunch, walk her to the elevator and kiss her cheek. She enters the car, turns and offers a smile as the doors close.

  My next step is to scout out the Blatz residence on Oakdale in the upper-class Los Angeles neighborhood of Hancock Park. I drive to the Blatz’s house—it backs up to the golf course. My ‘37 Chevy stands out like a sore thumb in this plush neighborhood, but it’s a necessity to carry out my sleuthing abilities, no?

  I look at my notes: Daphne will be driving a 1941 tan Hudson convertible. I hope she’s a careful driver, so I will be able to keep up with her. I’ll place myself up the street from a vantage point where she will not, hopefully, see me, and follow her to the rendezvous. My plan is ironclad. I drive home and wait for my beautiful bride … our marriage is hanging by a thread. My bad-boy antics will catch up with me sooner than later—I know, and I’m a fool.

  Helen is suspicious of my actions—foul play on my part. She has had these feelings for some time. She keeps a watchful eye and is gracious and patient with me. I’m hoping that my vicissitudes of life do not come back to haunt me. My romancing ways with her seem to keep disaster at bay. Tonight will be another one of those times when I must be at the top of my game.

  Helen, on the outside, is reserved and lady-like, poised and confident, but on the inside, she’s hot and sexy, a wanton woman. I know just what to do to seduce her. I know—I know—you, my faithful readers, are skeptical, but read on and see.

  A light supper is on the candlelit table in our intimate dining room. Soft jazz drifts from the radio, an atmosphere for romance. Helen is somewhat surprised as she enters our humble abode and I greet her at the door. Her radiant face breaks into a warm smile and I kiss her with passion, engulfing her in a tight embrace.

  We sip sparkling wine, while dining in subdued comfort. I gaze into her eyes, smile, and toast our intimate dinner. Words are not necessary; she’s heard it all many times before. The food and wine warm our bellies and after the meal, we retire to the bedroom.

  “Johnny,” she whispers. “It’s been a long day, I—”

  “Ah, not to worry—soon you’ll forget the trials of work life and enjoy the pleasures of the flesh,” I whisper, taking her hand, and with a gentle tug, moving her to the bed.

  “But, I have to be up early …” is her faint attempt at rebuff.

  “No is a forbidden answer, I have plans,” I say.

  “Johnny …” she sighs.

  I hold her face in my hands—peck her lips, nose, cheeks and neck as she slumps against me, unable to resist my bad-boy charms. I know—I’m vain, what can I say?

  She sighs, excuses herself and goes into the bathroom to prepare.

  Saturday, August 3rd, 1945

  Morning finds me sitting in my little coupe with my camera at my side. It’s 11:55 a.m. and I’m just up the street from the Blatz residence. At 12:10 p.m. the gate opens; Daphne’s tan Hudson convertible emerges, crosses the sidewalk, and moves toward me. The top is up. I start my Chevy and put it in gear. As she whizzes by, I catch a glimpse of her. She’s wearing a man’s soft hat and dark glasses. I make a quick U-turn and follow. She slows at the corner and I move down the street behind her, keeping a four-car-length distance. We drive at a moderate rate until she stops on Highland, turns right and proceeds north to Sunset. There she turns left, goes several blocks and turns right. She slows, pulls over and stops. I drive past and park, observing the goings on in the rearview mirror. After a ten-minute wait, a tall, well-dressed, middle-aged woman approaches and opens the passenger door. The lady doesn’t quite fit the picture I have in my mind of a preacher’s wife—business suit, hat, veil, gloves and heels. The elegant woman glides, ladylike, into the Hudson, leans toward Daphne, and they exchange a brief kiss. I pull up a newspaper, pretending to read as they drive past.

  Our cat-and-mouse game continues until the Hudson enters a motel parking lot off Sunset boulevard minutes later. They traverse to the rear of the two-story, white, non-descript stucco building. I park near the motel office, as I do not want to be spotted. I cut the motor, sit back, and wait. They’re sitting in the car, but from my current view, I’m not seeing much. Minutes pass, and they alight from the car. I take a quick camera shot as they walk up to a first-floor room. Mrs. Hallstead, I presume, opens the door with a key. She steps aside as Daphne enters. Once they’re inside, the door closes. I reach under my seat, grab my opera glasses and try to read the number on the door. The numbers on the doors are consecutive, so I count down to room 109. I’m off to the motel office to investigate the goings-on.

  I stroll to the office, carrying my camera with my left hand, open the door and step inside. A middle-aged, balding man is at the counter.

  He asks, “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, I’m inquiring as to the persons occupying room one oh nine.”

  “I cannot,” he hesitates. “I mean, that’s privileged information.”

  I pull out my wallet, flip it open, revealing my identity card and say. “I’m investigating an underage girl … a girl I believe is in that room.”

  “Underage?” he questions.

  “Sir, may I look at the register?”

  “No!” he exclaims, covering the register with his hands.

  “I’ll call the cops,” I threaten.

  “We don’t want any trouble … you see …” he doesn’t finish.

  “Let me see,” I say and reach for the register.

  The reluctant man pushes the register toward me and I turn it around and scan the names, finding a Mr. & Mrs. Smith listed in room 109.

  “There seems to be some mistake, the occupants of 109 are both female … care to comment on that?” I ask.

  “No!”

  “Tell me, just what kind of business are you running here?”

  “Like I said, not looking for any trouble,” he says in a shaky voice.

  “I’m here to prevent this young girl from making a big mistake,” I say and pause. “Let me phone the room.”

  “OK,” he says with reluctance and pulls a phone out from beneath the counter, lifts the receiver, dials several numbers and with two hands, offers it to me.

  “Hello,” a woman answers on the seventh ring.

  “Mrs. Smith, this is management. We have information that you have an underage girl in your room.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” she says, her voice rough with sarcasm.

  “We’ve called the police—they should arrive soon to investigate,” I say as she slams the phone down.

  I hang up and move to the open door and wait. Within five minutes the ladies rush to the Hudson, get in and make a hasty departure. I snap another photo, then skip across the parking lot and jump into my Chevy to follow. Daphne drives back to their original meeting place. Mrs. Hallstead, red-faced, gets out, slams the door and walks away, as the Hudson spins rubber and moves down the street. I miss an opportunity for another picture.

  I follow her. She seems to be meandering up and down the streets until she pulls to the side of the road and stops. As usual, I drive past, make a U-turn and move over to park across the street from her. I cut the engine, lift the newspaper to block my face and observe. She’s crying, her hands covering her face. I feel a tinge of sorrow for young Daphne—unable to console her. I snap away, getting several photos.

  The street-side car door opens and Daphne spews vomit onto the ground, gagging and coughing. She’s almost falling out of the car, so I dash across the street to assist, leavi
ng my camera behind in my locked car.

  “May I be of assistance?” I ask and use my handkerchief to mop her red, sweating face.

  She gags and I help her back into her car—her head drops to the side. Her breathing is shallow and she seems to pass out, falling to her side in the front seat. Time is of the essence; I go around to the passenger side, open the door and pull the little gal over. She seems light as a feather. I roll the window down and close the door. I decide to drive her home. I’ll get back to pick up my car later.

  Minutes pass and I pull up in the driveway of the Blatz residence, rush to the front door and ring the bell. In a moment, the butler answers. “May I help you?”

  “I have Daphne in the car, she’s sick!” I exclaim and rush to her car, swing the passenger side door open and cradle the unconscious little lady in my arms. The butler is behind me in a flash.

  “Oh my God,” he says. “Follow me.”

  “Mr. Blatz, there’s an emergency, please come at once!” the butler exclaims as we enter the foyer. “Put Daphne here,” he says, pointing to a small couch near the door.

  Mr. Blatz, along with the maid and the cook, rush to Daphne’s side, adding to the confusion in the crowded foyer.

  I’m on one knee, dabbing perspiration from Daphne’s face.

  “What happened to her?” Mr. Blatz asks, crouching down for a better look.

  “She passed out,” I say.

  “Stephen, call Dr. Klineman immediately!” Mr. Blatz yells.

  “Yes sir,” the butler says. He spins, heading for the phone.

  “Rosa, turn down Daphne’s bed!”

  “I’ll carry her, Mr. Blatz,” I say as I reach my arms under the girl. I lift her, using as gentle a touch as possible. I follow Mr. Blatz up the stairs to Daphne’s bedroom, placing her down on the bed.

  Daphne makes a groaning sound as her head hits the soft pillows.

  “Rosa! Please get a damp cloth, mop her face and stay with her,” Mr. Blatz orders. He turns to me, gives a slight head jerk, and I follow him down the hall.

  Stephen, the butler, rushes up the stairs and says, “Sir, Dr. Klineman is on his way—he’ll be here within minutes.”

  “Thank you, that’ll be all. You can wait for him at the door.”

  “That was fast,” I say.

  “The doctor is retired and lives close to us,” Mr. Blatz says. He turns to me and asks, “what the hell happened?”

  “Maybe we should get some privacy first,” I say. He leads me down the hallway to his home office at the back of the house.

  Once inside, with the door closed, I give him the lowdown on the previous activity.

  “So,” Mr. Blatz says, “no sexual contact was made?”

  “Not enough time—I called and interrupted their rendezvous soon after they entered the motel room.”

  Mr. Blatz moves over to a large picture window, overlooking the golf course, gazing out, sighs and turns back to me, saying, “I’m beside myself. Should I call my lawyer? A psychiatrist? Who?”

  “We have only suspicions, no proof,” I say. “As I said, all I have are some snapshots.”

  “Did that strange woman give Daphne anything? Liquor, drugs and such?”

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “Then, why is she sick?”

  “I’m no doctor, but to me, it looks like lovesickness,” I say without much conviction.

  Mr. Blatz offers, “Drink?” He moves to the liquor cabinet.

  “Whiskey—straight,” I say.

  There’s a tap on the door.

  “Yes?” Mr. Blatz says.

  “Dr. Klineman is here,” Stephen says through the door.

  “I’ll be right there,” he says, as he pours two strong drinks.

  “Normally, I do not drink this early,” I say with a sly gesture, accepting the drink.

  “Ha, yesterday did not count?” Mr. Blatz says with a nervous chuckle.

  “Drinking during a business conference is always right.”

  “Please wait here; you may sit down. I’ll be right back.”

  “Thank you,” I say as he leaves to check on his daughter, giving me time to sip my libation and write down pertinent information in my trusted notebook. I’m contemplating my next move.

  Mr. Blatz returns to his study twenty minutes later.

  “Daphne’s OK?” I ask.

  “The doctor gave her a sedative—she’s resting comfortably,” he states.

  “I’m at your disposal—what’s next?”

  “I want more information on Mrs. Hallstead.”

  “I’ll pay a visit to their church on Sunday and see what I can come up with,” I say. “I’ll take my wife—we’ll pose as a typical churchgoing couple.”

  We’re conservatively attired, sitting in a back pew at the Hallstead’s small church during services this fine Sunday morning. The minister, Reverend Hallstead, doles out a sermon of the usual hell fire and brimstone to the faithful. The tall man in purple garb fits the picture of a true believer, as he waves his arms in animation.

  I take Helen’s white-gloved hand and whisper in her ear, “He’s laying it on a bit thick, darling.”

  She ignores me; God love her.

  Several followers, in unison, offer a loud, “Amen!”

  I’m tempted to join in, but Helen, she knows me well, gives me a disapproving glance and I remain quiet. She’s coy, I love her so.

  While the collection basket is being passed around—by the way—I generously drop in two dollars of my expense money, courtesy of Mr. Blatz.

  I scan the church and notice Daphne Blatz, sitting to our right, several pews in front of us. She’s wearing a simple print dress with a white doily collar.

  And then at the close of service, the good minister invites all to join in an early brunch in the church hall. In my line of work, free meals are rare.

  The good reverend steps down from the podium and embraces his wife and two young children. I catch the eye of Mrs. Hallstead; there’s more to her than one would admit. With the help of a nanny, he leads the flock through a side door to the recreation hall. Once inside, the reverend stands to the side, greeting the faithful, as they file past to their seats at ten long tables. His wife, the nanny, and children sit at the front table.

  “Hello and welcome to our church. I’m Reverend Hallstead,” the smiling leader says to us. “I believe this is your first visit to our humble service.”

  “Why, yes, Reverend,” I say, taking his outstretched right hand. “I’m John Jackson and this is my lovely wife, Helen.”

  “Greetings,” he says with a broad smile. “You may sit anywhere—the food will be served momentarily.”

  “Thank you,” I say as Helen smiles and nods as we drift to seats near the reverend’s table. I’m doing a lot of drifting, ha.

  Helen whispers, as I hold a chair for her, “I feel strange.”

  “Sleuthing has that effect sometimes, especially the first time, but you’ll get used to it.”

  “Being uncomfortable is not my cup of tea,” Helen whispers.

  “I noticed,” I whisper. “Daphne was sitting in front of us, but I do not see her now.”

  When everyone is seated, the Reverend Hallstead stands and bows his head, leading the congregation in prayer. “Bless us O Lord and these, thy gifts, which we are about to receive from the fruit of thy bounty, Amen.”

  The crowd answers with a hearty, “Amen!”

  Crews of women scurry around, serving the flock, and, I must say—the fried chicken dinner and all the fixings seem perfect. A Thanksgiving of grand proportion will be consumed by all.

  The food is delicious, and we partake in conversations with other church members at our table, mostly small talk. The meal is consumed, and our tablemates begin to rise.

  I spy Daphne in a conversation off the side of the hall with the Halstead’s nanny. It looks cordial, but soon turns heated.

  “Helen,”
I whisper.

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  “Go over to them,” I say, under my breath, motioning with my head. “See what they’re up to.”

  “This detective business is making me nervous.”

  “Be nonchalant, OK?”

  Helen and I stand. I engage a couple sitting beside us in polite conversation, as my dutiful wife moves in the direction of the arguing ladies.

  I make my way toward the Hallstead table while keeping an eye on Helen. She interrupts the arguing couple and then, after a brief exchange, the nanny points to the back of the hall.

  I, in a patient manner, wait for several minutes until Helen returns to my side.

  I inquire, “Anything?”

  Helen pulls me aside and whispers, “They seem to be in a heated debate. The nanny calls the little lady a ‘bitch.’”

  “Ah, the plot thickens, my dear. I hope to engage the good reverend and his wife in conversation as soon as the churchgoers thin out,” I say, taking Helen’s arm and leading her to the head table.

  The red-faced nanny scurries over to Mrs. Hallstead and asks, “Shall I take the children home now?”

  “Yes, we’ll be along soon,” is Mrs. Hallstead’s curt answer. “Children, please go with Miss Turner.”

  I watch the exchange, wondering what relationship these two ladies have. Miss Turner, a plain woman, no makeup, in her early thirties, conservative dress, ushers the children from the hall. I turn in Daphne’s direction. She’s brushing tears from her eyes when she notices me and comes toward us.

  “Follow me,” I say to Helen; we move toward Daphne and meet several yards away from Mr. and Mrs. Hallstead.

  “I know you,” Daphne says, blinking her watery eyes, “A coincidence?”

  “Yes, Daphne, this is my wife, Helen.”

  “Pleased, Daphne,” Helen says. “We’re here to possibly join this church.” I love Helen; she’s fast with improvised statements.

  “Oh,” Daphne says, “would you mind mister, um …”

  “John Jackson,” I say.