Death by Hitchcock (6 page)

Chapter 16

When Chaz Winner got home that night he was still feeling shaky. He stripped off his clothes inside the front door, and dropped them carelessly on the vestibule floor. With no neighboring buildings across the way––just woods––he did not bother to close the blinds as he walked through the apartment, naked. He poured himself a large glass of scotch, and headed into the bathroom.

The warm shower water felt good pelting against his tension-riddled body, but it did little to steady his nerves. Chaz wrapped himself in a robe, and padded into the semi-darkness of the living room with a glass and bottle of scotch in tow. He lay on the sofa and numbly stared out at the blackness of night.

Honeysuckle’s ears twitched as the sounds of twigs and acorns crunched beneath her gardening boots and echoed loudly in the night. The woodland creatures who made their homes nearby paid little attention to her. From her hidden outpost in the dense foliage across the river from Chaz’s apartment building, Honeysuckle stared up at his windows. She had caught a nice glimpse of his naked figure in the hallway light of the vestibule, not a silhouette she was likely to forget anytime soon.

Turn on a lamp!
she cursed from the woods, trying to make him out in the semi-darkness. All she really wanted was to see the expression on his face.

How devastated the poor man must be,
Honeysuckle thought.
Even traumatized, perhaps! What a comfort I could be to him at a time like this, if only he would let me.

After forty-five minutes of reconnaissance Honeysuckle skulked away, feeling cold and frustrated, and headed home, making a small detour on the way.

Oona Clifton, suspicious of Honeysuckle’s nighttime rambles, was waiting up for her on Maiden Lane. Oona had taken to keeping a journal of Honeysuckle’s odd habits and mysterious rambles, and on the occasional nights when Oona slept over at Cake House, she kept a sharp eye on Honeysuckle’s activities. In her heart, Oona meant no ill will toward Honeysuckle, or so she told herself. It was just that, she rationalized, in her experience it was always wise to be prepared when there was trouble brewing. And Oona had a distinct feeling that Honeysuckle and trouble were closely linked. Her duty was to Nedda, and Oona would do just about anything to insure Nedda’s safety and wellbeing.

Oona watched from her darkened, third floor bedroom window as Honeysuckle approached the house on the bike Nedda had recently bought for her, silent as a possum slinking through the dead of night. Oona cracked open her door and listened as Honeysuckle mounted the stairs, and instead of going into her room, locked herself away in the sleeping porch-cum-lab. 

Creeping into the hallway and hovering at the top of the stairs, Oona strained to listen for any sounds coming from the sleeping porch. She stood still as a soldier for thirty minutes, hearing nothing, gradually feeling overcome with agitation and resentment toward Honeysuckle. All that was left to do was for Oona to retreat back to bed.

Chaz Winner awoke on the sofa the following morning, parched, with a stiff neck and a searing headache. For a few brief moments, he did not remember what had transpired the previous night, but this fog of momentary grace soon lifted, leaving Chaz in a renewed state of nervousness and upset over the murder. As he walked toward the master bathroom, he saw that something had been slipped under his front door. His head pounded painfully, and he let out a groan as he bent over to pick it up.

A printed
calling card read:
Honeysuckle’s Herbal & Homeopathic Remedies, Stall # 15 at the Farmer’s Market, Sure To Heal Anything That Ails You!

A spidery hand-written note scrawled on the back of the card said,
Here for you, HB

Chapter 17

Will sat in the office of his Chief of Police, Valerie Burnstein. In her sixties, married for thirty-nine years to the same man, Val had earned a reputation for being a no-nonsense, hard-working public servant. She sipped coffee from a mug that said, ‘I Heart Grandma
.’   

Chief Burnstein opened a folder marked on the cover,
Dr.Toby Czarlinsky, Chief Medical Examiner, Hanover County.

“
Barbara Anne Baldwin, aged twenty-three,” she read aloud. 

“Second year graduate student, Film Studies Department.  Five feet, eight inches, one hundred and fifteen pounds. Cause of death, asphyxiation by ligature strangulation”. Manner of death, homicide.”

“Multiple scratch marks, bruising, and redness on the neck,” she continued reading. “Petechiae found in the eyes, on the neck, and face. Livor mortis present in the buttocks.”

“So,” she said, glancing up at Will, “we know she wasn’t moved far from where she was killed.”

“X-ray shows ‘spondylolisthesis of the lower vertabra’,” she continued reading, “which we would expect from the position the body was found in.  Toxicology shows the presence of colchicine, a toxic alkaloid, in the blood stream. Colchicine, Toby notes, can be fatal even in small doses, but in this case did not cause her death.”

Will nodded, writing in a notebook.

“Also present, miniscule amounts of the poison esculin, a hydroxycoumarin glucoside, found in the bark of Aesculus. What the hell?”

“Horse Chestnut,” Will said. “
Aesculus hippocastanum.”

“You don’t say,” replied the Chief.

“My dad’s a small town country doctor. He used to spend hours in the woods with me, teaching me how to identify every tree, every root, plant and flower. Horse chestnut is used in a lot of homeopathic remedies, but it’ll kill you if you eat it raw.”

“What about this other stuff
––colchicine?” asked the Chief.

“I’ll look into it,” Will replied, making a note.

“Good,” replied the Chief. “Ligature?”

“We think the killer used a piece of celluloid film to strangle her,” Will replied. “We’re looking into whether the piece of filmstrip found in the victim’s hair was the same item used to strangle her,” he continued. “The long scratches around her neck could have been caused by the sharp edges of the celluloid. Plus the fact that the scratches are as deep as they are suggests she struggled to pull it off, and when she did, her skin chafed against the hard edges of the film. The smaller scratches on her neck were probably caused by her own fingernails, when she clawed at the celluloid trying to loosen it.”

“That’s a first––strangled by film,” said the Chief. “Cell phone?”

“We’re still going through it, but so far we know the last message she received was on Friday afternoon. It came in at four-thirty from Rita Clovis, the secretary at the Film Department. When I spoke to Miss Clovis, she denied sending it. Her desk is in an open reception area
––people come through there all day long. According to her, she says her phone went missing for a short time. Apparently she was busy sorting the Department mail for twenty minutes or so, and when she returned to her desk from the mailroom, her phone was missing. She doesn’t remember exactly when, but at some point later in the afternoon, it reappeared on her desk. She says she usually keeps her phone sitting on her desk most the time, and anybody could’ve picked it up and used it to send a message.”

“What did the message say?”

“It asked students in the Film Studies Department to arrive at Hexley Auditorium by six-fifteen that evening, prior to the screening,” Will said.

“Uh-huh,” said Chief Burnstein, leaning back in her chair. 

“So the killer,” she mused, “is someone who would not look out of place in the Film Department. He or she hangs around the reception area, waiting for Rita Clovis to wander away from her desk––they pick up her phone when no one’s looking, and send a text message to Bunny Baldwin. Then they put the phone right back where they found it.”

“The killer hides in the auditorium a little after six o’clock,” Will added, “and waits for Bunny to show up.”

“Seems kind of risky, doesn’t it?” the Chief said. “Killing her in a public place? Anybody could’ve walked in.”

“Not necessarily. Rita Clovis told me that the bottom floor of Hexley Hall, where the auditorium is located, is empty other than for screenings or special events. There’s nothing else located on that floor, besides restrooms, a catering kitchen, and the auditorium. Not only that, but she told me the Auditorium was built with special acoustics, same as a movie theater, so sound doesn’t leak into the classrooms on the floor above,” Will said. “Nobody would have heard a thing.”

“Okay,” said the Chief. “The killer lures Bunny to the auditorium. Someone Bunny knew, someone involved with the Film Department, someone who could easily approach her. He or she strangles Bunny––either there in the auditorium or in the ladies’ restroom.” The Chief paused. “Could a woman have done it?”

“Toby says it could have been a man or a woman. Bunny only weighed
––what was it––one fifteen. Not difficult to overtake. I would guess more likely a man, because of the violence of strangulation,” Will said.

“So then why the Ladies’ restroom?” the Chief asked.

“Opportunity? Maybe the killer followed her in there?” Will replied.

“Or wanted to point the finger at a woman,” the Chief said. “Who found her?”

“Lucy Greer, a sophomore at the college,” Will replied. “She attended the screening with her roommate. She left the auditorium shortly after the film started to use the restroom. She was standing at the sink, when she noticed in the reflection of the mirror that the middle stall door behind her was open and somebody was in there. She called out to see if whoever was in there was okay. When she got no response, she nudged the door open wider, and found Bunny as you see her in the photos.”

“Geez
. That must have been some shock for the poor kid. What do we have for Bunny Baldwin?”

“Rita Clovis didn’t seem to think much of her,” Will said. “When I interviewed her she seemed to be trying hard not to speak ill of Bunny, and ended up damning her with faint praise.”

“Did she have a roommate?” the Chief said.

“Mary Buttery,” Will said, checking his notes. “I’m seeing her this afternoon.”

Chief Burnstein leaned back and looked out the window, rocking gently. Her chair squeaked gently from the back and forth motion.

“What was the movie?” she asked.

“
Spellbound
. Part of the Hitchcock Film Festival they have every year,” Will said.

“No, I mean, what movie was the piece of film strip tied around her head taken from?” the Chief said.

“Dunno; I’ll find out,” Will said, making a note.

Chief Burnstein slid the folder from the desk, and placed it on her lap.

“Pretty girl,” she said, looking at the photographs.  “Boyfriend?”

“Looks like it,” Will replied. “Looks like her beau was the Head of the Film Department, Chaz Winner.”

Chief Burnstein’s eyebrows rose.

“You don’t say?” she asked. “Is there by chance a Missus Winner?”

“I’m seeing her today,” Will said. “Right after I have a chat with her husband.”

“Oh, and also,” he added, “I checked out what was written inside the stall
––
‘revenge is sweet and not fattening’
––turns out it’s a quote from Alfred Hitchcock.”

The Chief of Police closed the folder, and fixed Will with a worried expression.

“Better get going, William,” she said simply.

Chapter 18

Shut away for hours at a time in Hexley Hall’s editing facility, Wallace Duncan sat hunched over the computer, cutting together his documentary with high hopes that it might eventually reach a commercial audience.

He examined a sequence where Milo and Louis converse as they walk through downtown New Guilford. A squat, scruffy Milo shuffles alongside the lanky, dapper Louis, providing a nice comic visual. The camera follows them out of the daylight, into the Art House II Movie Theater and up a staircase to the second floor office. 

Louis: What are you saying, Milo? Are you telling me
The Great Escape
is some kind of meditation on existentialism?

Wallace wondered if the lighting in this scene was too dark. He wanted his film to have the shadowy intensity of Carol Reed’s 1949
The Third Man
(its cinematographer, Robert Krasker, was one of Wallace’s heroes)
,
but this scene in Louis’s office seemed as though it might be underlit. Wallace chewed his fingernails as he watched the screen.

Milo: That’s exactly what I’m telling you.

Sprawled on the sofa in Louis’s office, rotund and implacable, Milo ate popcorn as he made his case.

Milo: It’s a philosophical masterpiece, Lou. I figured that out as a kid. Look, remember the scene where the British officer makes an example of himself to his fellow prisoners about the importance of sticking to his routine
––his personal regimen? He explains to the guys why it’s important not to slack off, just because they’re all down on their luck, courtesy of Hitler and his stinking hole of a prison camp. He shows the other guys that you define yourself by your actions, not by your circumstances. You don’t let the Germans take away your self-respect. You don’t let them define you, even though you’re at their mercy. It’s existentialism 101. The British officer is showing the guys that no matter what’s going on around him, he still has self-respect. He shaves and bathes and trims his moustache every day. He keeps his uniform clean and neat. He teaches the other guys not to allow a bunch of Nazi assholes to dehumanize you.

Wallace Duncan peered closely at the final frame in this exchange. He contemplated ending the film by freezing on Milo’s face, which revealed an uncharacteristically earnest and vulnerable expression, so different from Milo’s usual guardedness. And wasn’t that one of Wallace’s themes, after all? The idea of breaking down peoples’ defenses, differences and fears, in order to uncover the truest self?

Catching his likeness in the blank screen of a nearby computer screen, Wallace regarded his reflection with approval. He reminded himself of a young Peter O’Toole; in fact, he thought himself dashing. Wallace was dressed in a black tee shirt and dark blazer, with a long striped scarf around his neck. As he gazed at himself
, he daydreamed about entering his movie in a film festival––perhaps in Rome or Budapest––and winning first prize. He imagined his acceptance speech, making sure to mention all his cinematic heroes. He might even learn to speak enough of the local lingo for the occasion and really dazzle the crowd. After winning such a prize he would make his way to Hollywood and shake things up with his originality and nouveau neo-realist sensibility. 

He had heard about a clothing store on Melrose Avenue and was eager to shop there. He would make it one of his first stops. He imagined living in a bungalow in the Hollywood Hills, and how the city lights would twinkle at night as he stood on his fabulous terrace, dripping with bougainvillea. He badly wanted
her
to go with him. They would name their first son Vittorio, after De Sica.

Wallace began reviewing another sequence, one he had shot with a hand-held camera, of Milo and Louis walking into town along the river path, on a sunny autumn day. They debated about the contributions of the four extraordinary artists who collaborated on
The Third Man
––Carol Reed, Graham Greene, Orson Welles, and Alexander Korda. The discussion took them all the way into town, with a few outbursts of spirited disagreements along the way.

The trees in the background of this shot were at their peak colors, and the leaves had just started to drop.  Wallace was happy with the crisp, clear light, but some of the sound needed boosting. The sequence was meant to show the companionably bickering relationship the two young men had developed, like an old married couple who would probably feel lost without each other. When they had resolved the topic of
The Third Man
, they immediately started on something else.

Milo: You’re dead wrong, Louis, I’m telling you! You can’t possibly appreciate French film without being able to read the symbolism. Would it be so terrible if you read what Lacan or Saussure have to say on this subject?

Wallace chuckled.

Louis: Okay, all right! Point taken. I give in––I’ll read up on symbolism in French cinema, if it’ll make you happy, Milo. I promise! Now, I got a question for you.
The Parradine Case.
Which would you say was worse casting: Gregory Peck as the English lawyer, or Louis Jourdan as the grubby lover?

Milo: Jesus, Louis, don’t get me started! Hitchcock wanted Olivier for the lawyer––you knew that, right? He would have been happy with Ronald Colman, too. Personally, I think Olivier would’ve been incredible––can you imagine him in that part? He would’ve blown the whole picture out of the water. And I know for a fact that Hitchcock thought Jourdan practically ruined the whole movie. That character of the lover is supposed to be revolting––a dirty little weasely guy who gives you the creeps! 

Louis: Jourdan was under contract! The studio forced him on Hitchcock.

Milo: Exactly. Hitch wanted Robert Newton––the great character actor––to play Jourdan’s part––you know––a really disgusting guy for Alida Valli to have an affair with. Not a pretty boy like Jourdan! What a joke!

Louis: I wonder what Selznick was thinking, casting Jourdan? It’s like he missed the point of the entire story!

Milo: Could have been a great picture. 

Here Milo takes a tissue from his pocket and blows his nose loudly, as the two young men continue walking.

Louis: When you think about it, how did those guys like Sturges and Hawks and John Ford manage to do so much brilliant work with the studio heads breathing down their necks? Those guys were the real deal, am I right
?

Milo: Character-driven story-telling. Narrative drive.

Louis: Bingo.

The two have arrived at Main Street. The camera follows Louis and Milo into Crackenthorpe’s Department Store, an old-fashioned establishment with warped, wood floors and high ceiling fans, a fixture on Main Street for sixty years. They stroll through departments as various as toys, lingerie, household appliances and herbal remedies. They head toward the candy department at the back of the store. While Milo peruses the selection of penny candies and sweets, Louis watches the activity on the loading dock, through an open rear door of the store.

Milo takes a white paper bag and scoops into it a quantity of candy corn. A sullen, teenage girl at the register weighs the bag of candy, Milo pays for it, and he and Louis go on their way. 

Louis: Did you see that guy on the loading dock?

Milo: What guy? (with a mouth full of candy)

Louis: You didn’t see him? That guy could’ve been your doppelganger.

Milo: (offering Louis candy corn) Oh yeah? I didn’t notice him. So, Lou, what have you got coming up next week?

Louis:
Lolita
and
The World of Henry Orient
.

Milo: Kubrick?

Louis leaps in front of Milo and playfully pantomimes hitting Milo in the ribs with a one-two, one-two combination punch.

Louis: C’mon, man, you even ask me that question? Shame on you, for chrissake! I wouldn’t show a remake of that picture if you paid me!

Milo: Angela Lansbury slays me in
Henry Orient
.

The two continue walking and eating candy corn.

Milo: Did you know the second unit cameraman on
Foreign Correspondent
had his equipment torpedoed on the way over to Amsterdam for filming?

Louis: 1941?

Milo: ’40.

Louis: Think it’s true that Goebbels loved that movie?

Next up for review was the crucial, additional footage Wallace had shot of Milo at Lattimer’s Pond the evening Bunny Baldwin was killed. Wallace’s concerns about the lighting were soon allayed when he saw that the earlier footage from the picnic blended almost seamlessly with the newer footage, even though the two were shot on different days.  

At this point in the film
, the afternoon was coming to an end, and the outing was winding down. The camera lingers lovingly as baby Elsie watches her mother pack up the picnic things, and prepare to go home. The camera cuts away to a shot of Milo walking slowly out of frame, becoming smaller and smaller until he disappears into the surrounding woods. 

The gazebo looked perfect,
Wallace thought, and lent a suggestion of domesticity. The fading daylight filtered through the trees and created a shadowy landscape (hinting at the idea that Milo’s existence would grow dimmer as he parted ways with Louis’s happy family). It almost reminded Wallace of the lighting in the German Expressionist films of the 1920s and early 30s he so admired. The fact that Milo actually bore a passing resemblance to one of the great actors of that period––Peter Lorre––was icing on the
kuchen. 

With the new footage successfully cut into the picnic sequence, the film had the ending it needed. Wallace was just about to review the sequence again, when he heard the door to the editing room open quietly. He turned and saw Susan Winner, wearing a long winter coat and fashionable boots. Her dark hair fell around her shoulders.

“I just dropped the kids off at skating, and my neighbor is going to pick them up afterwards and bring them home. I have about an hour,” Mrs. Winner said, glancing at her watch.

Wallace Duncan sat, transfixed, and stared at Mrs. Winner. He leapt from his chair and pinned her firmly against the wall. She laughed. 

Young Wallace’s imminent delight in the discovery that Susan Winner was wearing nothing at all under her coat brought immeasurable pleasure to them both, until it was time for her to leave.