The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Honolulu, April 1964

The office door said:

Samantha Smith

Private Investigator

Discretion and Confidentiality Assured

The office’s namesake sighed, wondering if she shouldn’t have gone with bigger letters. At first glance, it was easy to read and then miss her name, which more-or-less belied the point of the sign in the first place. But it had cost ten whole dollars to hire the lettering man, and it was too late to change things now.

Sam scowled, fishing her keys from her purse. Perhaps if business picked up, she could afford to repaint the sign. Or move to a better office.

The current office was little more than a cubby hole, a rented room on the second floor of Honolulu’s Ka Lehulehu Building. There was with barely enough space inside for a small desk, typewriter, filing cabinet, and three plain chairs. Ancient blinds hung over the windows, threatening to fall apart at any moment. A fly lazily wandered about the ceiling.

Depressed, Sam flicked on the light and glanced through the mail in the slot. Bills. Bills, bills, bills. All bills. Bills that were getting sterner every month. Sam sighed again.

Wait, there was also an envelope, with only “Samantha Smith” scrawled on it. The handwriting was terrible.

The young investigator moved to her desk chair, pulling out her hair ribbon. Thick, red curls tumbled down over her graceful neck and narrow shoulders. Sam’s mother had been Irish, and each of the Smith children had inherited her thick, bushy red hair. The men at the LAPD had laughed at her long red hair, Sam remembered.

That had not been so long ago. Upon graduating from high school, Sam had tried pushing her way into the Los Angeles Police Academy. Her father and brothers were all cops, after all, and Sam had no interest in becoming a teacher or a nurse. But the LAPD was not ready for women officers. Private investigations were the only route to detective work.

Disgusted, Sam had packed her bags and moved to Hawai’i, the newest state in the Union. There, she had distant relations who welcomed her with open arms. More importantly, in Hawai’i, a woman like Sam could scratch out a living as a PI, as long as she worked hard and kept out of the way of the all-male police.

Sam set the mail and her case notebook on the desk, lit a cigarette, then reclined in her chair. She crossed her long legs, allowing her skirt to billow around her knee. Sam was an exceptional beauty, and in Hawai’i, her pale skin, high cheeks, bright green eyes, and of course that bouncy red hair made her really stand out. Sam’s sleek yet curvy body was still getting used to the islands’ oppressive humidity, and the young detective found she appreciated dressing in light, loose fabrics. This displayed her shapely figure more than she liked, but it helped with the climate.

The redhead exhaled a cloud of smoke. With mild curiosity, she tore open the personally-addressed envelope, and discovered a single, handwritten letter inside. It was a struggle to read the horrible penmanship, but Sam was fairly certain the letter said:

Dear Detective Samantha Smith,

I am Halia Kalama, school student I know you cause my dad is a policeman I think you are very very groovy and would like to work for you is this OK? I work very cheap and am very smart.

Love, —Halia

Sam crumbled the letter in disgust. No doubt a member of the Honolulu police force was playing a cruel prank on her. And snidely reminding her that a woman’s work was raising children, not law enforcement.

“Ms. Smith?” There was a soft rap at the door.

The young detective looked up. Standing in the doorframe was a woman, perhaps in her late forties. Clearly a mainlander, and probably from the US East Coast, the lady wore a conservative bodice and full skirt, with pearls, white gloves, and flat-heeled shoes. Her hair was neatly pinned up, and tucked under a matching pillbox hat. A tiny purse was clutched in her hands.

Immediately, Sam stood. “Ma’am,” she said crisply, in way of introduction. “May I help you?”

The stranger entered, casting a disapproving eye all about the little office. She came from some money, Sam could see, plus embraced the traditional view that women should not be in the workforce. The young detective forced a pleasant smile.

“Hmmgh, yes,” the woman said, frowning. Was that a Boston accent?

“Please,” Sam said curtly, indicating a chair. She moved to close the door.

Still broadcasting her displeasure, the woman tenderly sat. “I’m afraid I need your help, Ms. Smith,” she clucked, and then obviously looked at Sam’s ring finger. “You are not married…?”

“No,” replied Sam, sitting opposite.

“Hmmgh,” the woman frowned, even more unhappily. “Well, I suppose you’ll have to do.”

Sam suppressed a tart retort. “What can I do for you, Mrs.…?”

“Harrison,” the woman supplied. “Wilma Harrison. I assume all I tell you is confidential, Ms. Smith?”

“Absolutely,” assured Sam. The detective set her cigarette in the ashtray, then scooped up her case notebook. That book contained every fact of every case Sam touched. She always began a meeting with a new client with such notes.

“Very well,” Mrs. Harrison sighed, looking down at her gloved fingers. “So, I’ll tell you, Ms. Smith, you are not my first choice for patronage.”

How flattering, Sam thought crassly, already writing in the casebook.

“But none of the other investigators would talk with me,” confessed the older woman. “They all said I should go to the ‘Girl Detective.’ Which I assume is you?”

Still writing, Sam nodded. She was the only female investigator on the islands.

Mrs. Harrison let out a long, trembling sigh. “My husband,” she said painfully. “He…”

There was a pause.

“He’s having an affair?” Sam supplied quietly.

The ends of Mrs. Harrison’s mouth dipped downward. She nodded, tersely. “I believe so,” she admitted.

The tale came out slowly. Mr. Harrison (first name Theodore, aged 52) had moved to Hawai’i for the summer, bringing the missus along. Harrison’s company smelled a real estate bonanza in the US’s newest state, and Harrison was under orders to buy up cheap properties for hotel development. Mrs. Harrison had come along for the extended vacation.

At first, Theodore seemed uninterested in the Hawai’ian paradise. He carried out his duties without enthusiasm and grumbled endlessly about missing baseball season back on the mainland. But then—overnight—his interests changed. Suddenly he was working late into the evenings, concerned about losing weight, shopping for upscale clothes, fretting over his bald spot. And he seemed to regard his wife as a pesky houseguest in their rented bungalow.

“I see,” Sam murmured.

Mrs. Harrison had no evidence of her husband’s infidelity, but the signs were all there. A woman’s intuition was never wrong about these things.

“But I need proof,” the older woman said firmly. “Theodore is a careful man, and he’s taken pains to hide everything from me. I need you to… what do you call it…”

“Shadow him?” asked Sam.

Mrs. Harrison sniffed. “How vulgar,” she muttered.

“My fee is fifty dollars a day, plus a hundred dollar bonus if I produce hard evidence,” Sam said plainly, closing her casebook. “I assume you’d like photographs?”

Sam was supposed to meet her cousin Mackenzie for dinner that night, but the Harrison case demanded immediate attention. Mrs. Harrison paid up front in cash, and Sam realized the older woman was impatient for results. So the detective phoned her cousin and left a message with Mackenzie’s roommate.

Theodore Harrison worked in a rented office, right off Bishop Square in the business district. As a tall and lanky mainlander, he was fairly easy to spot and even easier to tail. Sam absently followed the man as he crossed Alakea St. and popped into a jeweler’s shop, and then into the Kuka Cabins Rental Office. He spent about fifteen minutes in both establishments. He also made a point to check his reflection in the storefront windows. The mainlander apparently thought he looked quite handsome; Sam didn’t see it.

By the time Mr. Harrison had returned to his car, Sam was certain; this man was cheating on his wife. No married fifty-two year old had such a spring in his step nor such an interest in preparing a romantic getaway, not after twenty years of neglecting his spouse.

Now it was simply a matter of snapping a picture of Mr. Harrison and his mistress together.

Sam doubled back and slipped into the Kuka rental office. “Where are your locations, again?” she asked the clerk.

It turned out that Kuka Cabins rented from two different locations. One was up north, outside of Liliha Kapalama; the other was way, way out west, past Kuliouou-Kalani Iki. There was no way of knowing where Mr. Harrison had rented, not without tipping off the suspicious clerk. So Sam would have to do a bit more footwork.

It was a Tuesday, so it seemed unlikely Harrison would wine and dine his lady friend that evening. Sam gambled she had a few days before the tryst happened. It also seemed unlikely that Harrison would pick the cabins further away, if only because the Kuka Cabins brochure made those look less romantic. But Sam had to be sure.

So the detective hopped into her rust-splattered BMW 600 and coaxed the coughing automobile out onto the Kalaniana’ole Highway. As she drove, she could see the Pacific sparkling over Wailupe Beach. The sun was already beginning to set.

With a twang of regret, Sam thought of Mackenzie, her cousin. Out of all the extended family she had on the islands, Sam was closest to Mackenzie, who was just the sweetest girl imaginable. How many times had the detective canceled on their dinner plans? Mackenzie was a patient woman, but sooner or later, Sam would push their bond too far.

Well, Sam certainly never intended to neglect her favorite cousin. There was always another case to wrap up, another fee to chase, another bill to pay off. The work never let up.

The BMW shuddered, belching another cloud of ugly smoke. Sam sighed.

The moment Sam saw the Kuliouou-Kalani Iki cabins, she knew her trip had been unnecessary. The cabins themselves were almost falling apart, with no charm to them whatsoever. Even an insensitive chump like Theodore Harrison wouldn’t try to romance his girlfriend out here.

The young detective scowled, cursing her luck. So much for a productive evening. Well, at least she knew where Harrison could be spotted with his mistress; the other cabins, the Liliha Kapalama cabins were the spot.

On the drive back to the city, the BMW suddenly kicked and Sam’s senses went into overdrive. Something was wrong. The detective pulled off the highway in a hurry.

There was a hideous smell reeking from her engine, a mixture of burnt rubber and chemicals. Cursing, Sam opened the hood, and was greeted with a cloud of white smoke for her trouble.

The radiator hose had torn open. It could be mended with some electrician’s tape, and fortunately Sam had some in her glove compartment. But she’d need to wait at least a half an hour before the engine was cool enough to touch. Just her luck.

Seething, the detective lit a cigarette and glared out at the dark ocean, visible to the south. Perhaps coming out to Honolulu was a mistake. Perhaps the endless grind of chasing cases wasn’t worth it. Perhaps she should give in to reality and pack in the Samantha Smith Detective Agency once and for all. What was the point of it all if she overworked herself and never had the time to meet her cousin for one lousy dinner?

Over the wind, Sam could faintly hear a Beach Boys song. She turned, curious.

High above her on the hill, there was a manor house, glowing with outdoor lights. The detective could barely detect the laughter of women in the air. It sounded like quite a party.

Sam frowned. There was something familiar about that house. Was it an historical landmark or something…? She didn’t think so.

As the wheels in her head turned, Sam noted that the hillside was covered in the discarded remains of a small, white flower. Huh. The tiny blooms were triangle-shaped, and had such a unique fragrance. An odd mixture of pumpkin and lilac. Sam’s nose wrinkled.

Then up in the manor house, there was the sound of a big splash, then women cheering and more laughter. The party-goers were having the time of their lives.

Sam scowled darkly. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to a really great party. Not since becoming an investigator, certainly.

The next morning, the redheaded detective arrived at her office a little before eight AM, which was quite early for her. She had to snatch some extra film for her camera; then she needed to be near the Honolulu piers before the SS Akaibara docked. She was cutting it close.

As Sam reached her office door, a voice cried out: “Jeepers, its you!”

The detective whirled about, startled. There, opposite the corridor, was a teenage girl. An absolutely beautiful Hawai’ian girl, with sparkling brown eyes, long, black hair, and a smile as bright as the sun. The young woman radiated with delight. She was dressed in a simple blue minidress and black pumps; a bookbag was clutched against her chest.

Sam shrank back, clutching her casebook to her chest, as the girl rushed toward her. “Its you!” the girl gushed again and again. “Its you! Oh, gosh!”

“Can… I help you?” Sam asked warily.

“Its me!” the teenager proudly declared. When Sam stared at her blankly, the girl added, “You know… Halia? Halia Kalama? I’m here for the job!”

Annoyed and worried about the time, Sam merely snapped, “What job?”

“I wrote you,” the teenager said, her smile melting. “I dropped my letter in your box just yesterday. I’m the school student, you know, the one who can help you? That’s me.”

In a flash, Sam recalled the poorly-written letter in yesterday’s mail. “That was you?” she said disdainfully. “I thought a fifth grader wrote that.”

“No,” Halia replied, looking determined. “That was me.” There was a pause. “So… can I work with you, then?”

Sam wondered if this was an elaborate prank. “You’re a school student, right?” she asked, returning to the search for her keys.

“Yeah,” Halia replied.

“So why aren’t you in school?”

“School,” huffed the teenager. “School is for nobodies. You know what they teach us girls? Typing and homemaking and knitting. And baby-rearing. Nuts to that! I want to be a detective. Like you!”

Sam unlocked her door. “Look, kid,” she grunted. “I’m not hiring. Get me?”

If Halia was disappointed, she hid it well. “Aw, just give me a chance! Okay?”

Sam snatched her camera satchel bag, then had to stop the schoolgirl from bounding into the office.

“I’ll work extra hard for you,” promised Halia. “I promise!”

Sam cringed as she glanced at her watch. “Kid, I’m not hiring,” she said firmly. “Expenses are tight. Look, I gotta—“

“That’s okay,” Halia said quickly. “I’ll work for free, at least until we get more cases. Please, Sam, I wanna be a detective!”

“NO!” cried the investigator, pulling the office door shut. The lock clicked. Then Sam charged down the hall before Halia could protest any more.

But the next morning, Halia was there again, waiting at Sam’s office like an eager puppy. And then the morning after that. And again the following morning. The spunky teen simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Alright!” Sam finally exclaimed in exasperation. “If I task you with something, then will you let me enter my office without all this pestering?”

“You got it, chief!” said Halia, beaming.

The detective rubbed her temple, wishing she had an aspirin. “Theodore Harrison,” she said wearily. “He’s a banker or something at Baker Colonial Reality. The company’s in Boston. I need you to pull city records, check him out. Can you do that?”

“Absolutely!” Halia promised, nearly popping the buttons from her blouse as her chest swelled up in pride. “Count on me, chief!”

Sam watched the teen scamper off, half-relived, half-amused.

Of course, Halia was on a fool’s errand. Baker Colonial was a private company; Theodore Harrison was a private citizen. What would there be in City Records on either of them? Nothing.

So when the teenager returned—if she slunk back at all—she’d arrive completely empty-handed. At that point, Sam would point out that Halia clearly wasn’t meant for sleuthing work, she was better off in school, but thank you all the same.

After scanning her mail and lighting a cigarette, Sam called her messaging service. Please let there be new clients, she thought darkly as the service girl looked up her file. Please let them all be rich.

“I have one message for you, Ms. Smith,” the girl said. “Its from a… Mackenzie Kono.”

Mackenzie!

Sam groaned inwardly. No doubt her cousin was fed up with Sam’s excuses for canceling dinner.

The detective dialed Mackenzie’s number immediately. Mackenzie worked as a hula dancer and instructor at the Hotel Hotel Maika?i Resort, one of Honolulu’s more exclusive vacation getaways. Young ladies employed there were required to live in the dorms, if only so that their chastity could be monitored by the frumpy-looking chaperones.

After a little prodding, Sam convinced one of those chaperones to put Mackenzie on the phone.

“Mack,” the detective said, sorrow in her voice. “Listen, I’m so sorry about dinner. Work has been overwhelming. But I swear—“

“Oh, that’s okay,” Mackenzie interrupted. The younger girl sounded alarmed, but not angry. “Listen, I know you’re so busy. I see that. I need to talk to you about something else.”

Sam paused, her cigarette momentarily forgotten. “Oh? What about?”

“I need detective advice,” said Mackenzie. “Um, I can’t afford to hire you, so I need to know how you might solve a mystery. A real mystery!”

A flash of annoyance rippled through Sam. She didn’t have enough on her shoulders without her cousin playing games? “Mack…”

“Its my two friends,” pressed Mackenzie. “Malia and Kailani. They’re acting weird.”

“Your whole generation is acting weird,” drawled Sam. Sam and Mackenzie were only seven years apart in age. But growing up, the two girls had liked to pretend that Sam was the wizened elder. Sometimes Sam felt it was true.

“Stop it,” retorted the hula dancer.

Sam closed her eyes. “Sorry,” she allowed. “So… acting weird how?”

Mackenzie sounded fretful. “I… I can’t explain it. Malia and Kailani, they are completely normal most of the time… But then, in the evenings, they suddenly get this weird look in their eyes. I ask them if anything’s the matter, and you know what they say?”

Sam drew on her cigarette. “What?”

“They tell me, ‘I have a party to go to.’ And then they vanish! For the whole night!”

“Okay,” Sam allowed. “So… maybe they have a party to go to?”

“Almost every evening?” Mackenzie pressed. “No girl is that popular. And then the really weird thing is, in the morning, they don’t remember going anywhere.”

The detective frowned. “What do you mean… they don’t remember?”

“When I confront them, they honestly recall they were in their beds all night. They refuse to believe they went anywhere. But I’ve checked their beds! They’re sneaking out!”

Sometimes the simplest explanation is the best one. Sam said, “So your friends are liars.”

“No,” insisted Mackenzie. “Something’s up. I’m worried. My two best friends have never done anything like this before! Its like they turned into Pod People or something.”

Sam’s headache wasn’t going away. “I… don’t know what to tell you, Mack,” she said simply. “Sometimes people… they just do bizarre things.”

“If I hired you,” demanded Mackenzie, “how would you solve this case?”

That was an easy question. “Shadow them,” Sam replied. “Things usually become obvious after that.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. Sam knew her cousin was thinking furiously.

“Hey,” the detective said, suddenly alarmed for reasons she couldn’t place. “Mack, you aren’t about to do anything foolish, are you?”

“No, no,” Mackenzie said, a little too quickly. “No, of course not.” Her tone brightened. “Listen, I’m probably just being silly. Is dinner possible tonight?”

Sam’s mind whirled through her schedule. Tonight was Friday. She had a hunch that Harrison would try to steal away with his mistress for an evening rendezvous.

“How about a late supper?” Sam offered lamely. “I have to work this evening.”