The Greener Field

The Meeting

The grand Valencia Hotel in La Jolla had been for the past sixty years a venue of choice for the world's rich and famous. It was often also a charming weekend respite for the stellar Hollywood set in those times that chose to leave the glitter and hysteria of Los Angeles for the calmer, more scenic environs of San Diego. Actor Cary Grant, who actually lived in the "village" of La Jolla for many years, along with directors the likes of Alfred Hitchcock, could be seen in those times sitting with fellow Thespians before the fireplace or the impressive arched plate glass window of the La Valencia's lobby. There, onlookers could find them sipping whiskey or champagne in the early afternoons gathering to catch the glorious Pacific sunset.

It was to this historical landmark that Mr. Gunther Hoffmann ferried his two traumatized guests that evening. For them it had become a refuge from witnessing the terrible demise of Jess Danford—by now certainly presumed dead. His tragic fall from the headland cliff there in La Jolla was still an inconceivable event to the two young women, though Sarah had experienced the most severe of their shocks. She had, after all, been nearly murdered herself shortly before, and then viewed the death of the man who was once her lover and then her psychological tormentor.

Mr. Hoffmann calmly escorted the two young women into the main lobby, and politely insisted that they accompany him up to his suite on the third floor. Entering the spacious room, exquisite with its California Spanish-revival décor, Sarah immediately broke down and began to cry inconsolably. Carrie led her by the hand over to the sitting area of the posh room where they sat on a divan in front of an enormous potted plant. Hoffmann nodded to Carrie, in deference to her friend's emotional state. He then walked over to an antique end table, turned on the lamp and dialed for room service.

"This is Hoffmann in room 301. Yes. Please bring up a tea service for two. Ginger spice tea, please. And a bottle of Jack Daniels."

Mr. Hoffmann then went into the bathroom, where the sink could be heard running. He apparently did not feel comfortable still carrying the dirt and freshly wiped blood from his forehead  from the deadly skirmish at the cliff edge.

"I just can't believe Jess is gone," Sarah whispered to Carrie, wiping her streaked cheeks with an open palm.

"It was a real shock for you to have to see that, I know," Carrie quietly expressed, seeming unshaken herself. "But you're just one lucky girl right now, Sister. If this guy hadn't jumped in front of you . . . and took Jess' blow . . . you  would be the one we saw floating over those rocks. And I'd  be the one crying right now.."

Sarah gave her a long hug. "Yes. I know . . . " 

She pointed to Hoffmann, now standing at a distance and looking out the window at a darkened sky over the Pacific. "This man saved my life, " she said more audibly. "And risked his own doing so!"

Carrie leaned closer to her. "Yes," she whispered.  "But it's time we find out who this guy really is, Carrie . . . How he's involved in all this."

"I only know what he told me," She whispered back. "That I'm not the only victim of Jess  . . .  and someone is paying him for his services here."

Hoffmann turned from the window pensively and returned to the two, replacing his Panama hat. He looked refreshed and more relaxed. Sarah detected that he had even splashed on a scent of cologne. Just then a knock on the door and the phrase, "Bar Service" was heard. Hoffmann opened the door slightly and checked the person carefully before opening it fully. A young Hispanic man wearing a bow tie carried in a tray with a teapot cups and a full bottle of whiskey. Hoffmann reached into his pocket and handed the mad several bills and the two women set the refreshments out on a small table. They each sat around it more comfortably.