Death by Hitchcock (9 page)

Chapter 24

Will headed into town to interview Bunny Baldwin’s roommate.

Mary Buttery lived on Main Street in one of four apartments over Crackenthorpe’s Department Store. The entrance to the apartments was accessed via a brick walkway around the back of the store, and up an iron staircase. Mary’s apartment was the second on the left.

Will knocked on the door. A composed young woman with auburn hair and porcelain skin opened the door. She regarded Will intently with almond-shaped eyes and an engaging smile. He showed Mary his identification and she showed him inside.

The small apartment was inexpensively, but tastefully, decorated
––part Ikea, part castoffs from parents’ households. Mary and Will sat in the living room on a pale blue and cream striped sofa. A wide window dressed in curtains of the same fabric looked onto the picturesque sight of Main Street, with its storefront awnings, and window boxes dense with flowering kale and bright purple asters.

Mary excused herself and disappeared into the kitchen. She emerged a few moments later carrying a tray.

“I just made a pot of tea,” she said, setting it down on the coffee table. “We may as well both enjoy it.”

Mary poured out two cups of the steaming, fragrant brew.

“Interesting scent. What kind of tea is this?” Will asked.

“Oh, it’s got all kinds of good things in it. Chamomile, lemongrass, rose hips
––spearmint, I think. I get it at the Farmer’s Market from a friend of mine who grows her own herbs.”

Will recalled the horse chestnut in Bunny Baldwin’s toxicology report, and paused.

“Mind if I have a look at the package?” he asked Mary.

“Of course,” Mary replied.

She returned with a small brown bag with a fold-over opening. The plain, white label was hand written in careful, spidery script. Will read the ingredients––no horse chestnut, or anything else that seemed suspicious. He took a sip.

“Very good. Thank-you,” Will said. “Was Bunny a tea drinker?”

“Excuse me?” Mary said.

“I was wondering if Bunny drank this same kind of tea?” he repeated.

“Oh, I see. Well, actually, Bunny had her own blend of tea she preferred,” Mary replied. “But I can’t really tell you all that much about Bunny’s habits. I didn’t see a lot of her.”    

“But you were roommates?”

“Yes, we were. Technically.”

“How did the two of you get together?”

“I put a notice up on the Department bulletin board at the beginning of the term, about wanting someone to share an apartment in town, and Bunny contacted me,” Mary said.

“How did you get along with her?” Will said.

Mary uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, smoothing the folds or her skirt carefully back into place.

“Truthfully, detective,” she said, “I couldn’t stand her. I don’t mean right from the beginning, but as I got to know her better, I came to dislike her rather intensely.”

Mary’s gaze was steady and cool.

“Uh-huh,” Will nodded.

“I’m sure it’s awful of me to talk like this––there’s probably a special circle in hell for people who speak ill of the dead––but I’m sure you can appreciate my dilemma,” Mary continued. 

“Whether to be falsely deferential because Bunny’s dead, or to speak truthfully about what a vile bitch she was. A lot of people hated Bunny, you know,” Mary said. “Bunny Baldwin was one of the most selfish, self-absorbed, people I have ever met. She went through men like water, and she used people for whatever she could get from them. She had no awareness of her behavior having any effect on other people. She sailed through life with a serene sense of narcissistic immunity. I often wondered if she had a borderline personality disorder. Or maybe she was just a good, old-fashioned sociopath.”

Will regarded Mary curiously.

“I was a psychology student before I changed over to Film Studies,” Mary said, reading his mind. 

“Psychology, film––they both come down to the same thing,” she continued, “the study of human nature. And basically, Bunny was a courtesan. An educated, well-heeled courtesan. A she-animal.”

“Sorry if this shocks you,” Mary laughed. “I know how horribly feminist-ungrateful it must sound, but I didn’t invent human nature, you know. I simply observe it.”

“It’s a wonder the two of you were able to live together at all,” Will remarked.

“Bunny was hardly ever here. She used our apartment as a pit stop
––a place to grab a shower or a change of clothes. Like I said, we rarely saw each other,” Mary said. “And if I could have afforded the rent by myself, I would have asked her to move out long ago.”

“Will you be getting another roommate?” Will asked.

“I guess I’ll have to.”

“What did you think of Bunny’s relationship with Professor Winner?” Will said.

“A question only a man would ask,” Mary smiled tolerantly. 

“Gee,” she continued. “Let’s review the plot
––Bunny seduces a married man, breaks up his marriage, convinces him to move as far away from his children as possible––what do
you
think of the relationship?”

Will smiled.

“If you did a binary breakdown of human nature,” Mary continued, “with one category for ego and the other for grace, Bunny was pure, unadulterated ego. You know, as in, ‘pride and grace ne’er dwelt in one place’––an old Scottish proverb, I believe. There was not a shred of humility in her. And look where it got her!”

Will let Mary’s vindictive words hang in the air, waiting to see if she would amend this sentiment. She had more or less just gone on record saying that Bunny got what was coming to her.

Self-possession in tact, Mary didn’t bat an eye. She calmly sipped her tea.

“The two of you wrote a screenplay together?” Will said.

“That’s right,” Mary said. “Amazingly, somebody in Hollywood bought it. Professor Winner sent it to an agent friend of his who represents screenwriters. The guy loved it, sold it to a studio, and signed on Bunny as a client.”

“What about you?” Will said. “Why not sign you on as a client?”

“Not interested,” Mary said. “I’m strictly an east coast girl. Los Angeles holds no lure for me. With the money we got for our script, I can afford to take time off after graduation and write something else.”

“What’s the screenplay about?” Will asked.

Mary rolled her eyes.

“Nothing very lofty, that’s for sure,” she said. 

“It’s a cheesy thriller that takes place on an Ivy League campus like Cushing, about a computer geek who exacts all sorts of imaginative revenge on the kids who are mean to him, via diabolical computer ruses like altering grades, posting nasty lies, rumors, and photo shopped pictures on all the social media. Pretty formulaic stuff, really.”

“And so Bunny was planning to start a new life with Professor Winner after graduation, and seek her fame and fortune in Hollywood as a screenwriter?” Will said.

“That’s right, which probably would have proved fairly difficult for her, since
I
wrote the screenplay. She contributed some dialogue, and that was about it,” Mary said, pouring herself another cup of tea. “But, you know. Whatever.”

“Mary, I need to ask you where you were the night of Bunny’s murder,” Will said.

“At the screening of
Spellbound
, of course,” Mary replied.

“How about before the screening, say from 4:30 p.m. until seven?”

“Oh,” Mary said. “Let me think; that was on a Friday. So I would have been in a seminar with Professor Cadbury until five o’clock, then I came back here to the apartment to shower and change, and fix something to eat before the movie.”

“You didn’t receive a text message from the Film Department secretary, telling you to arrive early?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Uh-huh,” Will said, making notes. 

“Did you walk to Hexley Hall alone?”

“Yes,” Mary said.

“See anybody on the way?”

“No
––I don’t think so,” Mary replied. “It’s a pretty short walk from here.”    

Will produced the clear plastic evidence bag with the filmstrip he had shown to Aaron Farb. He handed it to Mary.

“I was wondering if you could tell me what movie this piece of film was taken from?” Will said.

Mary held the plastic bag up to the window, and studied it for a minute or two. “
Des Enfants Gates,”
she said. “Directed by Bertrand Tavernier. Sometime in the seventies. 1976 or 7 would be my guess. Why?”

“Can you translate the title for me?
” Will asked.

“
Spoiled Children
. The Film Society ran it a few years ago. And that’s another thing––about Bunny, I mean. She knew practically zilch about movies. I seriously doubt she even knew the difference between the work of Cukor and Capra. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she thought the French New Wave was a
hairstyle
,” Mary said.

Chapter 25

Susan Winner was running late to meet her sister for lunch at Olivia’s Tearoom. She hurriedly stripped off her clothes and stepped into the shower. As she began scrubbing her body with almond-scented soap, a spasm of wracking sobs overcame her, and she felt gripped by guilt and sadness and frustration and loneliness. 

She held her face upward into the rushing water with her eyes tightly shut, waiting for these troubling feelings to wash away, and along with them, the tender smell of Wallace Duncan. 

The young mother of two stepped out of the shower, feeling exhausted. Relieved to find the mirror over the sink fogged up with steam, she was glad to be spared the sight of her own reflection, afraid she would not like what she saw at that moment.

Chapter 26

Milo Marcus knew very well where Mary Buttery lived, although he had never been to her apartment. Every time he passed by Crackenthorpe’s, he looked up at the second floor windows, hoping for a glimpse of Mary. Once he thought he saw her looking down at the street. He froze, wondering whether to wave or pretend he hadn’t seen her, and simply scurried away instead. He hoped Mary hadn’t seen him, and if she had, Milo prayed she didn’t think he was some kind of pathetic pervert or stalker.

Milo viewed Bunny’s death as the perfect entree to approach Mary. It gave him a reason to speak to her
––he would offer his condolences and emotional support.

Oho!
What if I were to persuade Mary that I was somehow responsible for Bunny’s death? Wouldn’t that make her like me? Wouldn’t that make me some kind of hero?

Milo formulated his strategy. He resolved once and for all to speak to Mary after Professor Cadbury’s next class.  

When the moment came, he was every bit as nervous as he feared he would be, and then some, but he managed to cobble together a coherent sentence, invited her to tea, and magically, Mary agreed to meet him that afternoon at Sanborn House.

Milo arrived fifteen minutes early, and staked out a private corner in the elegant little library where he and Mary could talk privately. As he waited nervously for her to arrive he fussed over which chair he should sit in and which one he should offer Mary. He changed seats three times.

What if Mary walks in and sees me playing musical chairs! She’ll think I’m a nutcase!

Milo did not notice Edwina sitting on the other side of the library, but Edwina saw him, and just as she got up to approach him, Mary Buttery appeared. Milo leapt out of his carefully chosen seat to greet her. Edwina stopped in her tracks, intrigued by the idea of Milo having an assignation. She sat tight and watched the scene unfold.

Mary had had little dating experience at Cushing, and her assured, sometimes haughty, manner belied a dreadful lack of self-confidence. She was pleased when Milo asked her to tea, and she was trying out a new lipstick for the occasion, ‘Pinky Pinkerton’. Now she stood in the open doorway looking nervously around.

That girl looks familiar,
Edwina thought.
Where have I seen her before?

Edwina watched Milo and the girl intently.

Olivia’s Tea Room! That is the girl Honeysuckle was sitting with!

Curiosity now in full swing, Edwina repositioned herself in order to do some serious eavesdropping. She waited until Milo and his friend were settled in, and then covertly slunk her way through the library and settled into a chair directly behind a column, close enough to hear their conversation.

Milo thought Mary’s punctuality boded well. He regarded her tenderly, standing tentatively in the doorway like that, so unsure of herself, waiting to be rescued by the likes of him. Milo felt suddenly weak, and he was afraid he might faint. As soon as he managed to regain his composure he caught Mary’s attention and motioned her over. Mary glided toward Milo, sat down, and gazed wide-eyed around the splendid Georgian library––with its wood paneled walls, gilded carving on the fireplace, and inviting reading alcoves under arched windows. 

“This place is incredible!” she whispered. “Are you sure it’s okay for us to be here?”

“Oh, most definitely. I’ve been coming here for years. You don’t have to be in the Physics Department. It’s not a private club, you know,” Milo said, wishing to come off worldly and urbane.

“Quite the well kept secret,” Mary giggled.

Milo suddenly produced something from his backpack.

“I brought you a little gift, Mary,” he mumbled.

Delighted, Mary took the book from Milo’s hands.

“I hope you don’t already have it,” Milo said. “It’s one of my favorites.”

It was a copy of
The Cinema of Cruelty
, a collection of film essays by the great French critic, Andre Bazin, edited by Francois Truffaut.

“Oh, Milo!” Mary gushed. “Thank-you so much! How thoughtful!” 

The four o’clock chimes sounded on the gilded fleur-de-lys, grandfather clock. On cue, a handful of students rose from their study tables, and walked toward the rear of the library. Milo stood up.

“Come on,” he said. “It’s teatime.”

As she stood in line next to Milo, Mary admired the imposing brass samovar standing like a general on the tea table, commanding troops of china teacups and saucers. She watched, taking careful note, as people in front of her dispensed hot water from its ornate spout. Fearful of embarrassing herself or Milo, she wanted to look like she knew what she was doing when her turn came. Next to the samovar was a basket lined with a vast variety of tea bags, and next to that were all the accoutrements––lemons, sugar, honey, and milk. Mary debated about whether she should take anything from the platter of cookies and scrumptious looking scones, and decided against it.

Once back in their corner spot, Milo summoned the courage to start a conversation.

“I feel awfully sorry for Bunny’s parents and everything,” he began tentatively, “but good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.”

Instead of ingratiating himself, Milo had seemingly shocked Mary, and she glared at him uncomprehendingly. Milo felt instantly shamed and embarrassed. How badly he expressed himself! Now she would think he was an insensitive clod.

Don’t panic!
he shouted in his mind.

“It’s wrong to say that, and I apologize,” Milo stammered helplessly, “I just meant that a lot of people were upset by how Bunny took all the credit for the screenplay you obviously wrote
––it really made me mad she did that––and a lot of people didn’t like her because of that––”

He trailed off, feeling shattered and stupid. A few excruciating moments passed. 

“I appreciate that, Milo,” Mary said sweetly, flattered by his expression of solidarity. 

“It wasn’t any secret that Bunny and I had a falling out,” she went on. “We weren’t even really roommates any more, except maybe technically
––she hardly ever spent time at the apartment, you know. I guess maybe some people thought we were still friends, but I can’t say I’ll miss her.”

Milo’s chest swelled, and his heart burst into song. His beloved Mary was sharing her feelings with him!

“Well, listen, Mary. I just want you to know that you don’t need to worry, or feel afraid about anything happening to you,” he said solemnly.

“What do you mean, Milo?”

“Let me put it this way; if I were you, I would relax. As in, ‘ding-dong’ the witch is dead,” Milo said with an odd smile.

Mary gazed at Milo curiously, unclear about the inference he was trying to make, a look Milo misinterpreted as an acknowledgement between them that a tacit understanding had been reached.

“We won’t speak of the matter again,” he whispered theatrically, his dark eyes gleaming behind his glasses.

Mary hardly knew what to say. She sipped her tea and studied Milo for clues to the meaning of his words, but the message remained opaque to her. After some moments Milo endeavored to reestablish the conversation. He was anxious to cement their bond, and deathly afraid he might squander his chance to win Mary over.

“I guess she spent most of her time at Professor Winner’s place?” he ventured.

“That’s right,” Mary replied. “He has a gorgeous apartment in town on the river. One of those new condos near the public library, with an incredible view.”

Milo’s stomach tightened with fear and suspicion.

“Have you been there?” Milo asked sharply.

“I’ve never been inside, but Bunny pointed the building out to me once,” she said.  

Mary felt stung by Milo’s critical tone. She could plainly see he was put off by the idea that she might have been in Professor Winner’s apartment once upon a time. What would he think if he knew about her brief fling with the professor? Mary wanted Milo to like her, so she decided to change the subject.

“You know, Milo, it’s kind of funny we’ve never had a conversation before. I mean, we see each other all the time around the Department. I think maybe I’ve been too intimidated to talk to you.”

“Intimidated? Really?” Milo asked.

“Of course! Because of your reputation for being such a genius,” Mary laughed.

“Honestly?” he asked breathlessly.

“You didn’t know that?” Mary teased. 

“I’m not kidding,” she said
. “When that piece you wrote was published in
Film Quarterly
last year you became an instant star in the Department.”

Milo was overcome with emotion, and by a desire to confide in Mary. He put down a half-eaten scone and spoke with uncharacteristic urgency.

“Mary, is it true people call me Orson Welles behind my back because––because I’m fat?”

It was perfectly true.

“Don’t be silly, Milo. I’ve never heard that. And besides, if anybody ever said you were like Orson Welles, it would be because you’re brilliant––a genius.”

Happy beyond imagination, Milo’s words tumbled out rapidly.

“You know, Mary, I have something to confess,” he said. “I’ve wanted to ask you out for the longest time, wanted to get to know you better, discuss movies with you...”

Mary beamed.

“Me too, Milo. It’s too bad it took Bunny’s death for us to get together, but I’m glad we did. I can’t say I’m sorry she’s dead. I don’t think I made much of a secret about not liking her, especially after the whole screenplay thing, and then flaunting the fact that she had an agent all lined up in Hollywood, and was moving there the second after we all graduate. I don’t think anybody really liked Bunny much, do you?”

Nearly moved to tears by the injustices Mary had suffered at the hands of the grasping, ambitious Bunny, Milo spoke with great intensity.

“Bunny Baldwin was a charlatan! She didn’t deserve to call herself a film student! We should have gotten together a petition, and drummed her out of the Department!”

Mary was taken aback by Milo’s venomous words, but secretly felt deeply thrilled by his vitriolic outburst.

“Who do you think could have killed her?” Mary said. “I mean, it’s one thing to dislike her, but––to
murder
her?”

Milo gazed at Mary over the top
s of his tortoise-framed glasses, and fixed her with a knowing look.

“Hard to say,” he said. “Maybe it was an accident. Think about it. You’d have to have a very good reason to squeeze the life out of somebody
––to apply all that pressure to warm, pulsating, alive, human flesh. Maybe whoever did this to her didn’t mean to kill her. Maybe there was an argument and things got out of control. Who knows?”

“A cat fight to end all cat fights,” Mary said.

“So you think it was a woman who killed her?” Milo asked. “Why? Because her body was found in the ladies bathroom? A man could’ve just as easily killed her, and put her in there to make people think a woman did it. Maybe even to point the finger at Professor Winner’s wife.”

“Do you think Mrs. Winner could have done it?” Mary said, wide-eyed. “After all, Bunny did break up her marriage.”

“Could be,” Milo replied. “She’s a very fiery person, from what I’ve seen of her around Hexley Hall. Quite the temper.”

“Maybe that’s enough murder talk, for now,” Mary shuddered. “It’s starting to give me the creeps thinking about somebody we know doing something like that.”

“Quite right,” Milo echoed.

Mary sipped her tea.

“What do you think of Cadbury’s seminar?” she said.

“I can’t say it’s anything special,” Milo replied.
“I like Cadbury, if not the class. Anybody whose favorite director is John Ford is okay in my book. I do think Professor Cadbury is very eloquent about auteur theory. He makes an irrefutable case for it, as a matter of fact. What about you, Mary? Have you been enjoying the class?”

“Actually, I’ve learned a lot from him this semester,” she replied. “Never thought I would grow to love
M
! Imagine loving a movie about a child murderer!”

Milo laughed for the first time, revealing two perfect rows of small, square teeth.

“That’s the brilliance of Fritz Lang,” Milo said. “He was a very interesting man, you know. He studied Freud––that’s where he got his ideas about unconscious drive, like the Peter Lorre character in
M
, who is driven uncontrollably by his urges. Fritz Lang actually invented the psycho-killer genre. Did you know that? Cadbury didn’t stress that very much in class, but I think it’s an important point. Lang was adamantly opposed to the death penalty. That’s why he makes the Peter Lorre character so sympathetic. In
M
Lang is asking the question: should Hans Beckert be held legally responsible for these murders, if he cannot control his own nature? It’s what they now call the insanity defense.”

“How completely fascinating,” Mary gushed.

Milo and Mary went back for second and third cups of tea, and stayed at Sanborn House until five-thirty, discussing their favorite movies, their final projects, and their plans after graduation.