Ginny

by James Francis Gray

“You’ll miss church.”

  “Ha, say a prayer for me—see you Sunday—love you,” she says with emotion.

  “Love you too, sweetheart, bye,” I say and hang up.

  I leave word with the housekeeper and depart. I’m driving toward the Hallstead’s church and when I arrive, I slow down and pass the church at twenty-five miles per hour. I drive to the corner and make a U-turn when I spot Mrs. Hallstead clad in the latest conservative attire. She’s standing on the front steps of the church, talking with another woman. I drift past and park up the street to observe.

  Ten minutes later, Mrs. Hallstead drives by in a new Buick sedan, soft blue in color. The church must be in the black? I quickly follow as she heads west toward Beverly Hills. After a ten-minute drive, she parks on Wilshire, alights and enters a jewelry store. I park, move up to the store window and peek through. She exchanges money with the clerk and is handed a small paper sack. She turns and spots me—my cover is blown—that’s my plan.

  A moment later she confronts me out on the sidewalk and asks, “Mr. Jackson, are you following me?”

  I’m scrutinizing this lovely and voluptuous lady, tip my hat as ours eyes meet and say, “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m working for Mr. Blatz and I must apologize for misleading you and the good reverend.”

  She has a curious smile on her face and asks, “Mr. Blatz, Daphne’s father?”

  “One and the same,” I confess.

  “I see.”

  “I have a few questions I’d like to ask you,” I say, a wide cordial smile on my face, our eyes still inseparable.

  “You could have called first,” she says, returning my smile. She blinks lovely seductive blue eyes.

  “These sudden changes … the death of Miss Turner for one …” I pause.

  “We can’t talk out here on the sidewalk,” she says in a nonchalant way.

  I’m trying to read her eyes and manner, so I ask, “Perhaps somewhere more private?”

  She turns, takes my arm and says, “Lead the way.”

  “You’re a very attractive woman, Mrs. Hallstead.”

  “This could be trouble for both of us,” she says squeezing my arm.

  “I’m sure there’s a hotel close by,” I say in a bold manner as we walk down the boulevard.

  Ten minutes later finds us in a second-story room in a moderately-priced hotel a block off Wilshire Boulevard.

  “Sit on the bed, Mr. Jackson,” she orders, using my alias. “Let me get out of these cumbersome clothes.”

  “Mrs. Hallstead, call me Johnny,” I say as she begins the slow, seductive removal of her fashionable attire. Desire arises in me with each castoff garment as it floats to the floor. I’m beginning to remove my clothes. Her smile is sexy, she licks her wanton lips and I wait in appreciation for the pleasures I’m sure to enjoy.

  “Johnny, you’re in for a wonderful surprise—I’m well versed in the erotic ways of the orient—born in China. Need I say more?”

  “Come to me, lovely lady,” I say, stand and hold out my arms as the full-figured woman presses her warm, soft body against mine—Hell waits.

  I know my faithful readers, I’m a cad in the first degree—I can’t help myself—condemn me, I don’t care.

  We’re sloshing in a tub of bubbly warm water. I’m in back and the delicious Mrs. Hallstead pushes against me.

  She coos, “Mr. Jackson, you surprise me, being an excellent partner in the art of lovemaking.”

  “Six years in the United States Navy with many stops in the Orient, my dear.”

  “I’m thoroughly satisfied, a condition that has been lacking lately.”

  “Do tell,” I say.

  “Don’t be coy, Mr. Jackson.”

  “May I call you by your first name?” I ask.

  “What’s in a name?” she asks. She’s playing a game of who’s who.

  “A question for a question,” I say, taking advantage of my position in the tub, as my hands reexplore her voluptuous body.

  “Oh, that’s devious,” she says, but does not resist.

  “You like?” My hands continue to excite her.

  “Stop, before you bite off more than you can chew, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Please call me Johnny. Now, tell me your first name,” I demand.

  “Ha, first names are for family and close friends only.”

  “We’re as close as we can get, right now,” I say; my mission to excite is working as throaty coos of pleasure emit from her lips. Her head falls back against my shoulder, she lets out a long sigh and my expert hands and fingers continue to bring her back to life.

  The bottom of my feet burn … the fires of Hell are close.

  We tumble out of the tub onto the floor. I tease her, withholding my full repertoire.

  “Oh, Johnny—not fair,” she cries.

  “Your name and then your joy, my sweet sexy vixen,” I demand.

  “Evangeline!” she exclaims as I go into my practiced routine, bringing her the delights she requires.

  An hour passes in sensual magnificence and she whispers, “Enough.”

  “Oh, but my dear, I’ve just begun,” I say, tickling her feet.

  She squirms, pulling her legs up away from my skilled hands.

  “Want more,” I say.

  “Let’s save that for another time, Johnny.”

  “How delightful—another time—I’ll wait in anticipation for pleasantries of sexual wantonness.”

  “Yes, when all the ugliness is behind us—we’ll swoon in each other’s arms, my dark prince of passion.”

  I get up and turn on the hot water, replenishing our love tub. I take her hand and we slip into the liquid once again, splashing water onto the floor.

  Once settled, I ask, “We should get to the questions I have for you.”

  “Must we?”

  “This unpleasant situation will not go away by itself, Evangeline Hallstead,” I say, using her full name.

  “That horrible man, Sergeant Murphy, questioned us after the unfortunate incident. I was closed-mouthed, a wife does not have to answer any questions about her husband—I know the law,” she sniffed—a phony show of emotion, but I’m not sure.

  “Start from the beginning. Tell me what happened on the night of Miss Turner’s death?”

  “Maybe I shouldn’t talk about this to you—after all, you work for Mr. Blatz.”

  “We have to get to the truth, to exonerate you and your husband. And, of course, Daphne Blatz,” I plead.

  “I’m innocent of any wrongdoing,” she says. “That’s all I can say.”

  “I do not know what makes you tick.”

  “Sex!”

  “Blunt, my dear.”

  “I don’t beat around the bush … oh, ha, a little faux pas,” she giggles, takes my hand and guides it to the Promised Land.

  “You are a delightful playmate,” I say. “If we keep this up, we’ll be here all day.”

  “I wouldn’t mind.”

  “I know,” I say, my active hands roaming over her excited body.

  “One more time in the tub and then we’ll nap, OK?” she queries.

  “I’m a slave to your charms—when in Rome, ha,” I chuckle. “You’re going to kill me … oops, a bad choice of words.”

  I wake from our nap. It’s dark outside. Lovely Evangeline is by my side, purring away, deep in dreamless sleep, no qualms, no regrets and no guilt. She’s so precious, an over-zealous vixen of great talent in the sex department. Never before have I, a very seasoned man in the art of seduction, been overshadowed in the sack. I’m mystified and must uncover the many secrets she possesses.

  She stirs, rolling to face me, her big, beautiful, blue eyes open and I smother her soft lips with a passionate set of wet kisses. She presses up against me and we’re at it again, animalistic creatures craving deep hell-bent desires.

  We come up for air after another series of mutual cli
maxes, ha, I brag a little.

  “Question,” I say.

  “Not now, I’m basking in pure bliss,” she coos.

  “Answers are what I need,” I say.

  “No!”

  “Don’t try my patience, lovely lady—now tell me how Miss Turner died.”

  “It was an accident.”

  “Not according to Sergeant Murphy. So, tell me.”

  “She fell down the stairs and that’s it, sir.”

  “You witnessed this?”

  “No, I was in bed at the time—oh, why must we talk about this? I’m not comfortable, Johnny.”

  “In bed with whom?”

  “Daphne.”

  “Now that’s interesting, seeing that Daphne claims to have been at her home fast asleep at the time of Miss Turner’s demise.”

  “I’ve said too much! This conversation is over, Johnny!” the red-faced lady exclaims.

  I pull her into a very tight embrace, nibble her ear and whisper, “I want more information and I want it now.”

  “I’m hungry, Johnny—feed me and I’m all yours.”

  “I’ll call room service,” I say.

  “Yes, and after you do that, I’ll call home—my husband must be wondering where I am at this late hour,” she says. “By the way, what time is it?”

  I check my watch on the nightstand. “It’s 8:45.”

  “A full course dinner for two, spare no expense,” I say into the phone, “Room two thirty-four.”

  “Our special today is roast beef.”

  “That’s fine and a bottle of champagne, too.”

  “We’ll be up in fifteen minutes—thank you sir.”

  Evangeline gets up and drifts away and into the bathroom, saying, “Be only a few minutes.”

  I get up, find my suit jacket, and light up a much-needed smoke. I settle back against the headboard, take a deep drag and let the smoke out. There’s nothing like a good cigarette after a hot and heavy roll in the straw.

  Moments pass and she appears clad in a long, white hotel robe.

  “Your turn, Johnny,” she coos.

  “You deprive my eager eyes of the joys of your magnificent body, wearing that.”

  “Oh, Johnny—you’re so sweet—you’ll get your wish after, and only after we’ve replenished our strength with a good meal,” she says, sits beside me and pulls her shapely legs up onto the bed. Her robe opens, allowing me a glimpse of pure white thigh, sending a chill up my spine.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say and head to use the facilities.

  Minutes later, we’re sipping wine and dining on our roast beef dinner.

  “Back to the questioning, my dear,” I say.

  “Ha, anything I tell you will not be of use in a court of law,” she says, smiles and gives me a wink.

  “Coy, Evangeline,” I say, “but not relevant.”

  “I think my husband pushed Miss Turner down the stairs. It sickens me,” she declares.

  “Oh my God, that’s horrible,” I gasp.

  “This is not the first time someone perished this way.”

  “Tell me.”

  “My husband’s first wife, Patrice, left this world in the same fashion seven years ago with a fall down those stairs,” she says.

  “I’ll have to look into that.”

  “I’m not going to say any more now, OK?”

  “We’ll have to change our strategy, find more information as to exonerate you from this ugly mess,” I state.

  “I like the way you speak,” she says. “Let’s change the subject now.”

  “Yes—I’m also looking for the truth in your personality … this everyday sex thing you talk about comes to mind.”

  “Well, you’ll have to pry it out of me, Johnny.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing these last few hours.”

  “OK, here goes. I’m a sensual person, not oversexed, but …” she pauses for effect.

  “I have all night, sweet lady. You intrigue me.”

  “Most women lead stressful lives. Me, no, I enjoy life to its fullest. There’s no stress because I have the ability to satisfy myself every day with self-manipulation.”

  “Ha, you mean masturbation?”

  “Masturbation is a man’s thing … we, as women, prefer other terms,” she says, smiles and asks, “So, do you understand?”

  “I think I understand.”

  “I start the day off with a morning lift that lasts until day’s end. This way, I’m satisfied and content. If, for some reason, I encounter stimulation, I can take it or leave it.”

  “And that means male or female stimulation?” I ask.

  “You have the picture, Johnny.”

  “You’re an enigma, my sweet and beautiful lady.”

  “I beg to differ—the puzzle is solved—my years growing up in the Orient have educated me in the art of seduction and exquisite lovemaking. Look, today I’ve given you things, things only a truly skilled lover can give—things your wife probably does not provide,” Evangeline says with a sly seductive smile.

  “Yes, you have a point there. Shall we continue our trip to the gates of Hell with debauchery at its lowest?”

  “Ha, ha, very funny,” she laughs. “I’m game if you are.”

  Our last fling of the day is a little more subdued and at the finish, we lie in each other’s arms, panting.

  “I’d better get home. My husband is probably climbing the walls worrying about me,” Evangeline says.

  “You didn’t call him while I was in the bathroom?” I ask.

  “No, while I was trying to think of a good excuse, room service arrived.”

  “I think I’ll spend the night here. Care to stay?”

  “Johnny, if I stay, you’ll die, ha, ha,” she laughed.

  An hour passes. She’s dressed and ready to go when I ask, “I’ll walk you to your car?”

  “I can manage, Johnny,” she says with a wide smile. “We do not want to be seen together at this late hour.”

  “But, my dear … the mean streets of Beverly Hills,” I joke.

  “The bell captain will escort me. Don’t worry—I’ll tip him two dollars.”

  “You’ll need change.”

  She comes to me, smiles, and bends over, kissing me. “That should hold you ‘til the next time.”

  “I’ll be breathlessly awaiting …”

  “Yes, you will. Lock the door behind me. I do not want any strange women coming in here and taking advantage of your charms,” she says, swirls, goes to the door, looks back over her shoulder, gives another wide smile and departs.

  I retrieve the bottle of champagne, take a long swig, open my wallet, find Murph’s phone number, lift the receiver and tell the front desk operator the number. I’m connected in a moment.

  “This better be important,” the grumpy Murph says.

  “How’s the Blatz case going?”

  “Johnny, do you know what time it is?” Murph asks.

  “It’s time to put our heads together and solve this case.”

  “I’ve been canvassing the Blatz neighborhood. That’s what I’ve been doing, and it does not look good for your client, ha,” Murph chuckles.

  “And you’re gonna tell me, right?”

  “Maybe,” Murph coughs. “You go first, if you have anything.”

  “I’m drawing blanks, Murph.”

  “Typical,” he huffs. “Well, Daphne’s car was seen leaving her house an hour before Miss Turner’s demise. And, by the way, her car was seen later, returning to the Blatz residence. Care to comment?”

  “Are you sure Daphne was driving?”

  “Not 100%, but …”

  “Circumstantial evidence, Murph,” I state.

  “So, mister big shot, detective extraordinaire, what do you have?” Murph asks, “Anything?”

  “I questioned Mrs. Hallstead.”

  “Shoot,” Murph says.

  “She�
��s not entirely truthful. She’s holding back. There’s a conspiracy here, Murph.”

  “Explain.”

  “Go back in time. Say, seven years, and investigate a death in the Hallstead residence. It happened under similar circumstances, Murph. My guess is the good reverend is responsible for both.”

  “Are you jumping to conclusions? Is this information bona fide, or hearsay from Mrs. Hallstead?”

  “That’s what she implied; she thinks her husband is responsible but will not testify to it.”

  “I’ll check into it tomorrow—thanks, Johnny,” Murph lightens his tone. “See, maybe we can work together.”

  I spend the night, shower in the morning and go down to the front desk.

  I ring the bell, and a dutiful clerk rushes to the counter.

  “Room two thirty-four, I’m checking out,” I say.

  “The bill has been paid,” the clerk says.

  “Interesting,” I say.

  “Sir, the lady left enough for a nice breakfast in the hotel dining room,” the clerk says, passing me a voucher.

  “Thank you,” I say, I take the slip of paper and head across the lobby. I’m so lucky sometimes.

  It’s Over

  I enter our apartment late Monday evening after several rounds of heavy drinking with Sam and the boys at Frank’s bar in Hollywood.

  Helen is sitting on the living room couch, looking stern. A pile of my laundry is on the coffee table—this situation is not looking good. And I—under an alcohol stupor, am not up to a heated argument.

  “Johnny,” she says with a deep sigh. “It’s over …”

  I stand there in front of her. She’s been crying; her face is flushed, eyes red and I’m burnt toast.

  I’m silent—bagged by my adolescent stupidity.

  She pushes my soiled clothing onto the floor.

  “Nine years, Johnny—down the toilet …”

  I’m motionless.

  “I was only gone a few days … sniff … you couldn’t wait, could you?”

  I’m as stiff as a board—straight as a flagpole … I do not move.

  “Your clothing has the stench of sex with another woman …”