Ginny

by James Francis Gray

  “I’m feeling faint,” Daphne says, and I grab her in my arms before she falls to the floor, and take her to a nearby chair to sit.

  Mrs. Hallstead exclaims, “Daphne!” She’s rushing to our side, a concerned expression on her face.

  “We’ll take her home, we’re friends of the Blatz family,” I say as we exchange glances.

  “We should call a doctor,” the Reverend Hallstead says.

  “I think she’ll be fine,” I say.

  The reverend waves the churchgoers back as we try to make a hasty exit, as he and his wife observe us.

  “Please be careful,” Mrs. Hallstead says; our eyes meet again—lovely blue eyes—I must be careful with her.

  Helen uses Daphne’s keys to open the passenger side door. I ease the little lady into the Hudson and close the door. Helen and I go around the car, getting in, Helen in the back and me in the driver’s seat.

  “We’ll leave the Chevy here, my dear—pick it up later,” I say and drive away, waving to the preacher and his wife.

  “She’s coming around, Johnny,” Helen says as Daphne opens and blinks her eyes.

  “Daphne, you OK?” I ask.

  “I don’t feel well,” Daphne says.

  “You’ll be home soon,” I say.

  At the Blatz residence, I carry Daphne up the stairs and place her in bed. Mr. Blatz has the live-in housekeeper, Sarah, watch over his daughter. And then, outside the bedroom, introductions are made. Helen and I follow Mr. Blatz and join him in his first-floor study. We take seats on a couch and face him.

  “What happened?” Mr. Blatz asks.

  “At church, after the luncheon, Daphne got into in a heated debate with the Halstead’s nanny. And then she felt faint, so I helped her to sit down.”

  “What was the fight about?” Mr. Blatz asks.

  “Not sure,” I say.

  “Where are my manners? Would you care for coffee or tea,” Mr. Blatz offers.

  “We’re fine, just had lunch,” I say.

  “Brandy?” Mr. Blatz asks.

  “Now, you’re talkin’” I say.

  “Johnny,” Helen adds, “we do not want to take advantage of Mr. Blatz’s hospitality, especially now.”

  “Nonsense, I could use a drink,” Mr. Blatz says and stands. He turns and asks Helen, “Perhaps, you could give Sarah a break, as she has her work to do? Please sit with Daphne for a while—most of the help is off on Sundays.”

  “Of course,” Helen says and scurries away to relieve the housekeeper.

  Mr. Blatz goes over to the liquor cabinet to fix the drinks.

  Over brandy and Cuban cigars, we sip, smoke and sit to discuss our next move. I could get used to this high living.

  “This is perplexing, Mr. Peterman,” Mr. Blatz begins, shaking his head side to side. “I do not know what to say or have any ideas of how to proceed.”

  “Yes, it’s puzzling,” I admit, but offer no solution. I take a long puff on my cigar, blow smoke into the air, finish my brandy and set the glass down on the coffee table between us.

  Mr. Blatz rises and asks, “More brandy?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I say.

  He goes to the liquor cabinet and comes back with the bottle and fills our brandy snifters. Looks like this is going to be a long, unpleasant afternoon, no?

  “My wife, Helen, is a legal secretary. Maybe she could inquire of her boss about this situation?”

  “Yes, that would help. I do not want to bring this up with my lawyer, just yet,” Mr. Blatz says with a sigh.

  “Johnny!” Helen exclaims, rushing into the room.

  We rise and I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  “Daphne’s crying excessively and we can’t get her to stop.”

  “I’ll call Dr. Klineman,” Mr. Blatz says and heads for the phone.

  After Mr. Blatz makes the phone call, we go upstairs to Daphne’s room. She’s becoming hysterical and begins to vomit. The chaos continues until the women calm Daphne down and clean up the mess. Dr. Klineman arrives moments later. Helen stays with the doctor while he examines the troubled young woman. The others wait outside the room.

  “You may attend your other duties now,” Mr. Blatz says and nods to Sarah the housekeeper. Sarah gives a half bow and they hurry away.

  The doctor exits the room, leaving Helen to tend to Daphne’s needs.

  He clears his throat and says, “I think we should call in Dr. Martin for a complete physical. You know, he took over my practice when I retired several years back.”

  “You have no idea why Daphne is ill?” Mr. Blatz asks.

  “It could be many things. We’ll do some blood work, take her vitals and such. Maybe even admit her for observation,” Dr. Klineman says.

  “Can’t you give her another sedative?”

  “No, I think she should be examined first. I’ll make an appointment for her with my associate, Dr. Martin.”

  “Make an appointment?—Why!” Mr. Blatz exclaims. “She’s sick, there’s no time to waste.”

  “We could take her to emergency?”

  Sarah comes rushing up the stairs, panting.

  “Yes,” Mr. Blatz asks.

  “It’s an important phone call for you, Mr. Blatz, the Kennedy project.”

  “Thank you. I’ll take it in the den. Now doctor, do what’s best for Daphne,” he orders, heading for the den.

  Four days later:

  There’s good news and then there’s bad news, depending on how you look at the situation. Daphne is pregnant, and by whom? She is not forthcoming with information about her current situation.

  The doctors put Daphne on bed rest with special nurses for twenty-four-hour home observation and then, on the third day, Daphne seems to be much better. She’s sleeping through the night now.

  Mr. Blatz is beside himself with concern for his frail daughter, and I’m trying to comfort him in the upstairs den. We’re standing at the bar, partaking of snifters of good brandy and puffing on cigars, when there’s a knock on the door.

  “Yes,” Mr. Blatz says.

  “Sir, there’s a Sergeant Murphy from the Los Angeles Police Department here to see you,” Stephen, the butler says through the door.

  Mr. Blatz opens the door and asks, “What about?”

  “He didn’t say,” Stephen says, as Sergeant Murphy, huffing and puffing enters the room.

  “Johnny!” Murphy exclaims.

  “Murph,” I say, “what brings you here?”

  “Murder!”

  “I don’t understand,” Mr. Blatz says.

  “Last night around eleven-fifty p.m., a Miss Turner, the nanny to the Reverend and Mrs. Hallstead’s children—she met her demise under odd circumstances,” Murphy says.

  “How?” I ask.

  “May I take a seat? Those stairs were steep.” Murph asks; he flops his large frame onto the couch.

  “Perhaps Mr. Peterman should leave the room during questioning,” Murph says with a yawn.

  “It’s OK, he’s an associate of mine,” Mr. Blatz says.

  “During my investigation, I interviewed the Halstead’s staff. Lo and behold, I gathered information of a heated tryst between Miss Turner and Daphne Blatz. It happened this Sunday prior, in the church hall after services,” Murph begins. He takes his hat and places it beside him, while procuring his notebook and pencil from his inside pocket. “I believe Daphne is your daughter?”

  “Yes she is, so how can I help?” Mr. Blatz asks.

  “First things first—where were you at the time of Miss Turner’s death?”

  “I was at my club with business associates,” Mr. Blatz replies.

  “These business associates will corroborate your story?”

  “Of course,” Mr. Blatz says, while I remain quiet.

  Murph inquires, “And the whereabouts of your daughter, Daphne?”

  “She was here in bed.”

  “If you were elsewhere, how do you know whe
re Daphne was?”

  “She’s been ill. We have a nursing service, observing Daphne round-the-clock.”

  “I’d like to question the on-duty nurse.”

  “I’ll get that information for you.”

  Murph asks, “When?”

  He makes an entry into his notebook. He huffs and tries to lift his big frame to stand, but falls back onto the couch.

  “I’ll call the doctor’s office now,” Mr. Blatz says and goes to the phone. “Sergeant Murphy, would you care to join us for a late afternoon glass of brandy?”

  “Sure, I’d be delighted, sir,” Murph says and looks at me, “Johnny, you have an alibi?”

  “Murph, you look a little withered—rough night?” I ask.

  “Don’t try my patience, Johnny—been up all night on this case and now, I’m in need of some rest.”

  “This should help,” Mr. Blatz says, handing Murph the glass of brandy, which he downs in one big gulp.

  “Thank you, kind sir—that hit the spot.”

  “Another?” Mr. Blatz asks.

  Murph hands the glass back to Mr. Blatz, coughs and looks at me. “Well?”

  “Let’s see,” I begin as Mr. Blatz refreshes Murph’s brandy. “When was—”

  “Johnny, last night, 11:50 p.m.,” Murph growls as he takes the drink from the host.

  “Why don’t we all sit down,” Mr. Blatz says, taking a chair facing the detective and waving me to an adjacent seat.

  “I was in dreamland with my lovely wife, Helen,” I quip. “Satisfied, Murph?”

  “No!—I’ll be satisfied when this case is settled and the perpetrator of this evil deed is behind bars.”

  “How’d she die?” I ask as Mr. Blatz remains silent.

  “I’ll ask the questions here. Mr. Blatz, you say, Mr. Peterman is an associate—how?”

  “I’ll answer that …” I begin.

  “Johnny, let Mr. Blatz answer the question,” Murph says, looking away from me and gazing at Mr. Blatz.

  “Client confidentially, Murph,” I say.

  “Enough!” Murph exclaims. “Mr. Blatz, please answer the question.”

  “I … I …” Mr. Blatz hesitates and looks down.

  “OK, we’re all going to the station,” Murph says. “I do not have time for—”

  “Wait,” Mr. Blatz says. “He’s working for me, he—”

  “Stop!” I exclaim.

  “Johnny, you’re gonna get it!” Murph exclaims in a loud voice.

  “Sergeant, Mr. Peterman was hired by me to investigate my daughter’s relationship with Mrs. Hallstead.”

  “I’d advise you, Mr. Blatz to have your attorney present during any questioning,” I say, drawing a dirty look from Murph.

  “I’ll call headquarters; we’ll haul you in, but not until I ask your daughter a few questions,” Murph says, using his strong voice.

  “No,” I shout, but Murph springs to his feet, this time with amazing agility, to make his protest.

  “This is getting us nowhere,” Mr. Blatz says. “I’ll call my lawyer.”

  “What’s all this about?” the disheveled Daphne asks, coming into the room. She’s clothed in a robe, pajamas and slippers. “I’m trying to rest.”

  “Now, now, Daphne my dear …” Her father begins.

  “Daphne!” Murphy shouts.

  “Don’t say a word, Daphne,” I call out.

  “That’s it—we’re goin’ to the station,” Murphy says.

  “I’m under doctor’s orders,” Daphne says to Murphy. “I’m not going anywhere—and, by the way, what do you want? Who are you?”

  “I’m Detective Murphy, L.A.P.D… . .” he says.

  This chaotic scene unfolds with Mr. Blatz and Murph heading to the police station, while Daphne and yours truly are sitting on the back patio, chatting over hot tea and toast.

  “Are you feeling better, young lady?” I ask.

  “Not sure, what’s going on?” Daphne asks.

  “Well, Miss Turner is dead—happened …” I begin.

  Daphne gasps and asks, “Dead—how—why?”

  “Last night around 11:50—I do not have the information on the cause, but the police will want to know where you were at the time of Miss Turner’s death.”

  “I … I … um … was in bed,” she says, albeit not convincingly.

  “The truth,” I say.

  She puts her hands over her face and begins to sob.

  “Try to relax,” I say.

  “My life is a mess,” she cries, tears dripping down her flushed face.

  I offer my handkerchief; she accepts, blows her nose and wipes her flowing tears.

  “The truth will come out,” I say in a soft voice, taking her hand.

  “They’ll crucify me,” she whimpers.

  “Now, why would you say that?” I question, knowing the answer.

  “People treat us like we’re carrying the plague—as if we’re diseased or …” she does not finish, but bursts into another crying jag.

  “Us, as in you and Mrs. Hallstead,” I say.

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me, please,” I say.

  “I can’t, I do not know you or why you’re here—are you one of my father’s lawyers?”

  “I’m a private investigator, hired by your father to look into your relationship with Mrs. Hallstead.”

  “He’s spying on me?”

  “He’s worried about you—your weight loss, your secret meetings, the way you dress, et cetera.”

  “Does he know about what I am, I mean …” she hesitates.

  “He has suspicions, but has no proof.”

  “I don’t know where to begin, or if I can trust you,” she pleads.

  “Our main objective here is—is your protection. The truth will help, believe me,” I say, giving her hand a light tap. “The police will want to ask questions. Your father will have his lawyer present and he’ll offer legal advice, too.”

  “I don’t know—I’ve never discussed my plight with a man before—I feel strange. Do you understand?”

  “I think I do. Everything that is said here will go no further—it is between us.”

  “I’ve always felt odd, you know, I was never interested in boys …”

  “Go on,” I say in a soft voice.

  “You’ll condemn me, you already have that look,” she says, more tears forming in her reddened eyes.

  “Perhaps you should get some rest—we’ll discuss this at another time, OK?”

  “See!” she exclaims, “You do condemn me for being a les …”

  “No, that’s not true, I condemn no one,” I say with conviction.

  She sniffs, trying to compose herself and then says, “I suppose it will be OK.”

  “Start from the beginning, you know, when you first realized your … I mean your condition.”

  “It’s not a sickness, it’s a fact of life!” she exclaims. “I was born this way.”

  “Sorry.”

  “When I was nine years old, I was invited to a boy-and-girl birthday party at my friend Albie’s house … he was in my class at public school …” she hesitated.

  “He lived nearby?” I ask.

  “Yes, in our neighborhood. I didn’t want to go, but my mother insisted. So, begrudgingly, I went and was miserable.

  “Albie tried to kiss me and I got sick—couldn’t stand a boy touching me, yuck,” Daphne says with disgust.

  “So, what happened?”

  “He kept trying and I slapped him and that’s when the trouble started. I was sent home by his parents. My mother was really angry and wouldn’t listen to me as I tried to explain.”

  “The ‘Boys will be boys’ line didn’t work?’” I jibe.

  “Ha, very funny—I thought we’d have a civil conversation, but no—you have to joke about my so- called affliction, as you so eloquently tried to put it—disgusting, mister … whatever your name is!”
<
br />   “John L. Peterman, Esq., my dear,” I say with a slight smile.

  “Smug …” she begins.

  “Observant, is a better word. And I feel that you’re holding back pertinent information on your plight.”

  “I got myself into this situation and I’ll get myself out, too,” she says with arrogance.

  “Do you have any knowledge of why someone would want to kill Miss Turner?”

  “I don’t like her, so now, I’m a suspect?”

  “What did she do or say to you that made you so angry—I’m talking about the row you two had after church Sunday?”

  “Why should I tell you?” she asks.

  “Ha, that’s four questions in a row—I like twenty questions, but not now, Daphne,” I say while giving the thin lady the once-over with my eyes.

  “I’m not available, Casanova, ha, ha,” she giggles.

  “Daphne, please tell me about Miss Turner.”

  “Not much to tell. I think she carries a torch for Mrs. Hallstead. Thinks I’m moving in on her territory,” Daphne says, a mischievous twinkle appearing in her tearful eyes.

  “Why do you refer the reverend’s wife as ‘Mrs. Hallstead’? She has a first name, I presume?”

  “I think I’ve said enough, Mr. Peterman—let’s leave it at that, OK?”

  “The truth will set you free …” I say when she springs to her feet, shouting.

  “Stop it!—you’re trying to trick me—just stop it!”

  I stand and embrace her, feeling ribs beneath light garments. Her head rests against my chest. “Now, now,” I whisper, trying to comfort her while heaving sobs wrack her feeble body. She seems to have sudden fits of emotion, and I can understand why.

  After I put Daphne back in bed, I go to the living room and phone Helen.

  “Hello,” she says in a soft, sexy voice.

  “What time does your train leave?” I ask, knowing the information.

  “Johnny, you’re anxious for me to leave, ha?” she giggles.

  “Never,” I say.

  “Within the hour; Andrew will pick me up soon.”

  “I’m gonna miss you,” I say with conviction.

  “You’ll be fine. I’ll be home Sunday afternoon—you can take care of yourself until then, I’m sure.”