Timing is everything. If I hadnt just spent a week in Los Angeles, if I hadnt driven past the little house on Fifth St. Helena Street where Marilyn Monroe died, if I hadnt visited her lonely crypt with sad dying flowers hanging over the edge of a tiny vase, I probably wouldnt have been so intrigued by the messages left on my answering machine while I was gone. But as I said, timing is everything.

The answering machines red light was flashing like some winking evil eye when I returned to my office after the trip. I was hot and tired, having just driven in from the Corpus Christi airport some 40 miles away, and since my Porsche 914 doesnt have air conditioning I had spent the entire time thinking of having a large, cold, very alcoholic drink when I got home. Now I was home, or at least in my office one flight of stairs away from home, and the only thing between me and that drink was the blinking red eye.

I took a step toward the stairs, hesitated, and thought, what the hell. Itll only take a couple of minutes to play the messages, and then I wont have to come back down. I can put up my feet, relax and replay in my mind video style memories of the sights of Los Angeles, the mountains, Hollywood, the beach at Santa Monica, and the rolling Pacific Ocean. The machine was blinking six times, an indication that there were six messages. I pushed the play button and waited, hoping there was nothing pressing, nothing that would endanger the drink and a trip down memory lane.

Message number one: Hello, this is Marilyn. I need I want to ask you some questions about your services. Ill call back later. A funny, breathless little girl voice, very appealing, and definitely sexy.

Message number two: Hello, this is Marilyn again. I just wanted to see if youre back yet I really need to talk to you. Ill try again later.

Okay, so why didnt she leave a number?

Message number three: Leonard Townsend? Are you the private detective? I need someone to find my dog. Hes been gone an hour. My name is Henrietta Fluffle. Call me at 555-2398. You dont charge much, do you?

Hmmmm, this one had an annoying habit of asking the answering machine questions. Did she expect it to answer? At least she left her number, although she would be disappointed. Yes, I do charge much. I dont have to, because I have a reasonably sized trust fund provided by my affectionate and financially unchallenged grandparents, but I do anyway. Its good for my ego. Plus I like getting paid a lot for sticking my neck out.

Message number four: Oh, youre not back yet! I cant leave a number because I cant go back home. I dont know what to do! There was no name, but I recognized the voice all right. It was Marilyn, sounding breathless and excited, lost and unhappy. At least she explained why she hadnt left a number, sort of. I waited impatiently for the next message.

Message number five: I found my dog. He was in the neighbors garbage, chewing on chicken bones. You dont need to call me now. This is Henrietta Fluffle. And dont send me a bill.

A bill for what? Listening to her messages?

Message number six: Hello, its me, Marilyn. Oh, I wish you were there. I need help and I dont know who else to turn to. Wont you ever come back? The last message ended in a sort of desperate wail, a combination of fear and despair that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up and head north. I wondered how soon shed call back, or if she ever would.

I went upstairs and glanced out the front window at the beach across the street. The night sea was rolling slowly, touched softly by a large moon which was partially hidden underneath thin, wispy clouds. White sand was visible in the moonglow and I could see waves breaking unevenly onto the shore. Somewhere in this eerie night was Marilyn, the mystery woman who thought I could help her out of whatever trouble she found herself in. Funny how her voice had that little girl, breathless quality that Marilyn Monroes had, the famous cadence and innate sexiness that has never been duplicated in the decades since her passing. Would she look anything like her famous predecessor? Or would she be a big disappointment, a 200 pound blowsy brunette with little girl squeals and big girl troubles? I sighed and went into the kitchen to fix a drink.

While I was pouring a generous helping of rum into a not so generous glass of cola the telephone rang. I reached over to the far end of the counter and picked it up, hoping to hear Marilyns voice though it would probably mean postponing my drink. I wanted to help her even though I didnt know what her trouble was and wouldnt recognize her even if she were standing on my front porch.

A deep, masculine voice spoke grumpily when I answered. Evening, Len. Its Walter. When did you get back?

Walter Hughes, homicide detective for the Rockport police force, was a friend who liked to come over and socialize, particularly when he was on the outs with his sometime girlfriend, the fiery tempered Marie Fox. When I departed for the balmy Pacific shores of California, Marie and Walter were like twittering love birds and completely indifferent to my departure. However, that had been a whole week ago, and they might be mortal enemies now.

I just got back, Walter, I replied, sipping my drink. Reluctantly, I might add. Los Angeles is a fantastic city and Hollywood is the ultimate cheap thrill.