After I dropped Didi off at work, I drove back to my house, found the health club number in my files and dialed it. While the phone at the health club rang, I remembered what Jill Thompson looked like. I knew because I’d seen all of her. She looked, as I remembered, as if she was in her mid to late thirties, she had blonde hair, and a well-toned body. I remembered her as being quite attractive, too.
“Jamestown Wellness Family Spa,” a female voice said when the phone was answered.
“I’d like to speak with Jill Thompson, please,” I said.
“Just a second,” the receptionist said. She put me on hold, and I was treated to a short commercial that extolled the virtues of good health, particularly the kind that could be obtained by purchasing an inexpensive – inexpensive to them, anyhow – membership to the Wellness Family Spa.
“This is Jill Thompson,” a rich female voice said.
I identified myself and added, “Didi Wallace said you wanted to talk with me.”
“You’re the…the private investigator,” Ms. Thompson said.
“I occasionally do perform that kind of work,” I said.
“Are you available?” she asked.
“Depends what you want me to do,” I replied. “Rather than do this over the phone, why don’t I come down there. It might be better if we talked in person before you decide whether you want to hire me or not.”
“Yes, I guess that might be best,” she said. “When can you get here?”
“It takes me about fifteen minutes to drive from my home to the club,” I replied. “Is that soon enough?”
“That will be fine,” she replied.
Fifteen minutes later, I walked into the health club. A pretty black woman, dressed in a lavender Spandex outfit, was sitting behind the reception desk. She smiled at me and said, “Can I help you?”
I told her my name. “I have an appointment with Ms. Thompson,” I said.
The receptionist nodded and picked up the phone. After speaking a few words and listening, she put it down and smiled at me some more. “She’s expecting you,” she said. “You can go right in.” She gestured toward a door that had a sign that said, “Manager” on it.
“Thank you,” I said, and walked toward the door.
Jill Thompson stood up when I entered her office. She had on a shocking pink tank top made of shiny Spandex, shiny black leggings and a pink bikini that matched the top over them. Her midriff was bare and looked firm, as did the rest of her body, which appeared to have everything in exactly the spot it was supposed to be. Her hair, a sandy blonde and full, was pulled back and fastened with a shocking pink elastic band into a kind of fluffy pony tail.
She looked as if she might be my age, maybe a few years older, but the passage of time hadn’t done any damage to her looks. She had wide blue eyes and a full mouth. Only a few wrinkles showed on her face, and I thought they added character and made her look more interesting.
She walked out from behind her desk, smiled at me, and extended her hand. “I’m Jill Thompson,” she said.
We exchanged greetings and, at Ms. Thompson’s request, I sat down. She went back behind her desk and sat down, too.
“What can I do to help you?” I asked.
“I’m…I’m being stalked and threatened,” she replied. “I need protection.”
There seemed to be a lot of that going around lately. First Roscoe mentions a stalking case, now I’m bumping into another one.
“Have you talked with the police about this?” I asked.
“Yes, of course I have,” she replied. “They…they say they’re doing what they can, but…” She shrugged. “They never seem to be around when I need them to be.”
“So you’re looking to hire me as a bodyguard?” I asked.
She nodded.
