The Body in Bodega Bay (8 page)

“Sure I can. I don't know if you know much about the way Hitchcock worked, but before he ever shot a scene, he had the whole film laid out on panels called storyboards. They were like black-and-white cartoons, scene by scene, giving the camera angles and so on. Sort of like a visual outline to follow. Some had the characters in them, some just the sets, some were close-ups, some were distance shots. Hitchcock had a team of artists working on the storyboards, and my boyfriend Peter was one of them. There were hundreds of drawings for
The Birds
. Peter kept some of the leftovers. I had quite a collection, but most of them got ruined over the years. I was dumb, stored them in the garage, and the roof leaked.”

“What about the ones you sent to auction?” I asked.

“Those I kept in the house in a closet. Peter had asked me to keep a special eye on those for some reason. I don't know why. They weren't the most interesting, just set designs, really. Sketches of the farmhouse used in the movie where the family gets attacked by the birds at the end of the film. Shown from different angles and distances. There were three of them. There's an illustration of one in the auction catalog.”

I made a mental note to check that out. “Do you remember when it was that Peter asked you to keep an eye on those particular drawings? Was it before or after he gave you the icon?”

“I'm not sure,” she replied after a pause, “but it must have been around the same time.”

I made a note of that and continued. “I don't know if you feel comfortable talking about your relationship with Peter, but it might be helpful if you could tell us a little more about him.”

Rose sighed. She refilled her cup and creased her chin. “It's a long story if you want the whole history.”

“That's what we're here for,” I said. “I mean, if you don't mind sharing it with us.”

She smiled ruefully. “You could say it's the story of my life. All right. I grew up in Bodega Bay and that's where I met Peter when I was eighteen. At a protest meeting. You're from Bodega Bay—does the name Rose Gaffney mean anything to you?”

Yes, it did have a familiar ring, and as Rose filled in the background, I made the connection. When we first moved to town, we heard of a local woman by that name who once owned property out on Bodega Head, near us. In the early '60s she led a campaign against Pacific Gas and Electricity when the company tried to build a nuclear power plant abutting her land. It was Gaffney who organized the protest movement and took them to court. The case dragged on for several years until a geologist discovered that the proposed plant would be sitting directly atop the San Andreas Fault. That put a quick end to the scheme. PG&E had to withdraw, leaving behind a seventy-foot shaft that everyone now calls “The Hole in the Head.”

I briefly recounted what I knew about Rose Gaffney.

“Well, she took a shine to me when I was a teenager; I don't know why. Maybe it was because we had the same first name. People say she was gruff and all that, but she had a good heart and she was awfully kind to me. She was just like an aunt. We spent lots of time together, clamming, walking on the beach. She taught me to bake—in fact I made these brownies with her recipe. And she got me interested in crafts. She had a huge collection of Native American artifacts—baskets and blankets and so on. She was the one who got me started on weaving.

“Anyhow, when she began organizing the protests, naturally I came along, and I met Peter at one of them. I fell for him on the spot. And pretty soon the three of us were hanging out together. I think Rose took him under her wing just to encourage our relationship.”

Toby began to fidget in his chair. The relationship thing again. That's testosterone for you; the eyes glaze over. I could guess he wanted Rose to get to the part about the icon. Rose noticed it, too. She tilted her head at him. “I'm telling you all this for a reason.”

He sat up straighter, chastened.

She took a sip from her cup and resumed. “That would have been the winter of 1962. Peter came up to Bodega Bay in January with some other members of the crew to get ready for the shoot. He was doing preliminary sketches for the storyboards and drawing some of the locals to get the costumes right for the actors. They didn't start the actual filming until the spring. I guess that was the happiest time of my life. Peter was working hard, we were in love, the protests against PG&E were growing, and there were Hollywood types walking all over town. It was all so exciting. And then—everything fell apart. It started with the icon.”

Rose paused. “Am I going too fast?”

I shook my head. “Please go on.”

“Peter was Russian by descent. Did I mention his last name? It was Federenco. One day he showed up at my house very upset and asked me to hide an heirloom that had caused a fight in his family. That was the icon. He wanted me to hold it for safekeeping until the dispute blew over.”

“Did he give you any background on the icon, like where it came from?”

“He was pretty evasive about it. I did piece together that this icon was part of a set he was given by his father, but a cousin had questioned the inheritance and was trying to get it back. From what he told me, the dispute had gone on for years, but a story had just appeared in the newspaper that had stirred things up. He was worried about what this cousin might do. Afraid of him, in fact. Said he was unstable and prone to violence. So would I keep the icon under wraps until things cooled down? He said the cousin didn't know who I was, and I'd be safe. That's how the icon came to me, and that's all I've ever known about it. Because shortly afterward, Peter died. By the way, I didn't tell this whole story to your friend when he called. It was too personal. But I'm telling it to you now.”

We sat in silence for a moment.

“I'm very sorry you lost Peter,” I said. “What happened?”

“It was just a couple of weeks later. He'd gone home for the weekend to San Francisco. He was with a friend who told me about it. They were getting out of a taxi when a motorcycle came roaring around the corner and clipped Peter while he was standing in the street. He was thrown to the pavement and smashed his head. By the time the ambulance arrived, he was gone. The kid who hit him never went to jail. He was the son of a policeman.”

“How awful for you.” I placed my hand on Rose's arm.

“And you know, there's something about his last words that still puzzles me. I've always wondered what he meant. According to his friend Terry, just before he died, Peter murmured, ‘Tell Rose Gaffney …' But he never completed the sentence. Tell Rose Gaffney what? Or was he trying to tell
me
something but because of his head injury he mixed up my name with hers? I'll never know. I'd like to believe he was thinking of me at the end, but. …” She shook her head sadly. “That's why I told you about Rose Gaffney.”

“I see,” said Toby.

There was another pause. “Rose, would you mind answering just a few more questions?” I ventured.

“No, it was all a long time ago. Go ahead.”

“Did Peter mention the name of this cousin he was afraid of? Is there any chance you remember it?”

She thought a moment. “The same last name as his, I think. Federenco. I don't remember a first name.”

“Okay. And when Peter first told you about the icon, he said it was part of a set? I think that's the word you used. Is it possible that he used another term like ‘triptych'? That's an icon made up of three attached panels.”

“That sounds right. It always looked to me that the icon he gave me was meant to be connected to another one.”

“And did he ever say anything about the other two panels?”

“No, not to me.”

Toby asked in turn, “You said that Peter referred to a story in a newspaper that had stirred up an old quarrel in the family. Do you know anything else about it?”

“I'm afraid not. I never saw it.”

“What about the newspaper? Did Peter say which paper it was in?”

“I don't recall, but it probably was the
San Francisco Chronicle
. That was the paper he always read. He'd carry it around.”

“Then it might be possible for us to track it down,” I pointed out. “But we'd need to know the date. Can you help with that?”

She shrugged. “Peter died in May, and he gave me the icon a few weeks earlier, which would have been late April. Late April 1962. Does that help?”

“At least it's a start.”

“What ever happened to Terry, the friend who was with Peter when he died? Did you stay in touch with him?” asked Toby.

“Terry? He also did some art work for
The Birds
. Yes, we stayed in touch for a while. Then he went out to New York to work as a set designer for the theater. I'd hear from him every now and again. He died, though, a few years ago. Drugs and alcohol, is what I heard.”

“And after Peter died, what about you?” I wondered whether she had anyone in her life. “You never married?”

“Oh, I had my chances. But I never wanted to, after Peter. He was the one, the love of my life. Not that I lacked for male companionship, mind you. At least until I hit sixty.” She grunted. “Then it was like somebody turned off a switch. But up until then there was usually someone. Peter was the one, though. Guess that's why I held onto that angel icon all these years—for sentimental reasons, certainly not religious ones.”

I must have looked curious.

“What?” Rose asked. “You want to know my religious views?”

“Not unless you want to talk about them.”

“You know, I heard a guy on TV last week who had a great theory. He said maybe there are millions of inhabited planets in the universe, and maybe there are different gods for different sectors, you know, like assistants to the Big One. As in any organization, some are capable, some aren't. Maybe the one watching over our sector has Attention Deficit Disorder. That would explain a lot.”

Toby chuckled. “Is that what you think?”

“Not really. Let's just say I've worn out a lot of outfits in my time. I've tried them on one after another—Catholic, Buddhist, Quaker, New Age, blah, blah, blah, and now I'm tired. I'll tell you something, though. I've been frightened of the idea of death ever since I was a little girl. I know it's going to happen. But I just never got used to the fear. You know, it's a strange thing. You can get used to an idea but you can't get used to a feeling, no matter how long you've had it. Either you feel it or you don't. I've been thinking a lot about death again since you told me about the murder. And the feeling is back. Well, maybe something I've said today will help the sheriff. I hope so.”

Toby smiled. “Thanks, Rose. You've been very, very helpful. We appreciate it.”

“We really do.” I stood up to leave.

“Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“There's just one thing,” I said. “What made you decide to sell the icon now after all these years? And Peter's artwork?”

“Simple. I needed the money. Times are bad. My sales are way down.”

Toby got up too. “So how did the storyboards do, if you don't mind my asking?”

“You know what? I cleared twelve hundred dollars on the lot after Morgan's took their cut and only six hundred on the icon. I was expecting a whole lot more. And to think that someone might have been killed on account of it—it doesn't make sense.”

“No, it doesn't,” I agreed. “It doesn't make sense at all.”

T
hat was quite a story,” Toby remarked as we headed back to Duncans Mills. The rain had slackened to a drizzle.

“She's quite a woman. It must be a lonely life for her, but she seems to have it together. She's independent. I liked her.”

“So did I.”

“Even when she slapped your wrist for getting antsy?”

“Even so. Sometimes I do get impatient.”

“You're such a man.”

“And that's bad?”

“Actually, in the general scheme of things, it's good.”

“Thanks. I suppose. What do you make of her story? The pieces don't all seem to fit.”

“No,” I admitted. “There must be a link between the icon and the Hitchcock memorabilia, but how in the world could Charlie have made a connection? Unless it was just luck that they ended up in his possession.”

“If luck was involved, it was bad luck for Charlie. I wonder what he did with those storyboards? I'm going to have to make another search of the shop.”

“Fine, and while you're doing that, I'll check the catalog entry on the storyboards and type up my notes for Dan.”

W
e stopped at the Cape Fear Café in Duncans Mills for a quick bite to eat before reopening the gallery. They make a good, old-fashioned BLT. I always ask them to hold the tomatoes, so I suppose the sandwich I order should be called a BL. While we were wolfing down our lunch, Caroline, the woman who owns the gift shop next to Toby, came in. “Hey, Toby. There was someone asking for you this morning. When he saw you were closed, he seemed disappointed. I told him to stop by again later today, and he said he would.”

“Thanks. I'll keep an eye out for him.”

“Sure, me too.”

“Did he say anything else?” asked Toby.

“No. Just that he'd call again.”

“Okay, thanks, Caroline.”

Back at the shop, Toby removed the closed sign from his door and started a systematic search of the premises while I scanned Morgan's auction catalog for the lot Charlie bought. It didn't take me long to find it.

Only one of the three was illustrated in the catalog. The sketch showed a side view of a wood-frame house partially hidden by a group of trees. There wasn't much detail. It was years since I'd seen the film, but I vaguely remembered the farmhouse where the family lives and where the final bird attack takes place. At least now we knew what the storyboards looked like.