Dial H for Hitchcock
Page 23
Which is precisely what Jimmy Stewart says to Kim Novak in Vertigo once he realizes how she’s deceived him.
“Cece,” said Lael, who’d appeared in the doorway. She’d been afraid she might dissolve into laughter when she saw me sprawled across the picnic table, but I’d instructed her to think of something very sad if that happened. Like the time she didn’t stir her flan sufficiently and it turned into scrambled eggs. “What are you doing in here? You’re going to miss the finale.”
“Look, Lael,” I said, rising to my feet. “You’re terribly sick. I don’t know whether it’s possible for you to realize it or not. I don’t know much about these things, but why don’t you go someplace where you can get some treatment? Not only for your own sake, Lael, but so you don’t go on causing more and more destruction to anyone you happen to meet.”
That little speech came verbatim from the screenplay for Strangers on a Train, written by Raymond Chandler after the book by Patricia Highsmith.
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about,” Lael said, her eyes darting nervously. “I’m going back into the theater.”
“You’re my best friend, Lael. I thought I understood you. That we understood each other. But in this last week, I’ve come to the sad conclusion that people are ultimately unknowable.”
“Cece, I—”
“It’s like this book I’ve been not writing on Hitchcock. No wonder I can’t get anywhere. Everybody sees him as this sadist, this sociopath, a lunatic sexual aggressor. So how do you explain the fact that he was also a devoted family man who was home for dinner every night for sixty years? Tell me that if you can, Lael.”
“Cece, you need to calm down.”
“But I am calm,” I said, pulling a slightly dented French star tip for decorating cakes out of my white rattan bucket purse.
Lael clapped her hand to her mouth. It might’ve been to stop from laughing. I hoped she was thinking about the flan again.
“I see you recognize this,” I said.
Lael looked down into her ample cleavage and shook her head violently.
I nodded. “That’s right. Buster found it on the hiking trail the day Anita was killed. It still had traces of frosting on it, which is why I couldn’t get him to spit it out. He’s addicted to sugar.”
Lael’s knees started to buckle. She grabbed onto the door frame for support.
“Don’t you have anything to say?” I demanded.
“The French star tip is used for borders, wagging rosettes, piping, and drop stars,” she recited in a daze. “The finely cut teeth make nice, tight ridges as the frosting is pushed through the top.”
“Stop it, Lael. You were there, weren’t you? You killed Anita Colby and set me up for it. It’s the oldest story in the book. You needed money. I told you not to buy that Odyssey, much less spring for the rear entertainment and navigation systems. But you didn’t listen. And why should you? You were already mixed up with the wrong people. Yes.” I laughed bitterly. “You always had been. All the way back to Kansas.”
“No!” Lael cried.
“Yes! Kansas! You think I’d forgotten that you grew up outside Topeka! So much for Midwestern values!”
“We all go a little crazy sometimes,” Lael whispered, cribbing from Norman Bates.
And then I took something else out of my purse.
Larry the limo guy’s gun.
“Goodbye, Lael.” I pulled the trigger at the very same moment that the cymbals crashed in the puppet show’s final number, an elevator music version of Duran Duran’s “Hungry Like the Wolf.” As Lael staggered backward, clutching spasmodically at her chest while squeezing the plastic capsule of Heinz ketchup all over her Joey Heatherton jumpsuit, I caught a glimpse through the open door of the Little Red Riding Hood marionette successfully squirming away from her lupine adversary as the audience burst into applause.
“What the fuck—” cried Connor, who came sprinting in from the hallway, earphones still on.
Terrence followed, screaming, “Shit! Shit! Shit! Somebody give her mouth-to-mouth! I have a cold sore!”
Lael’s lips curled almost imperceptibly. I gave her a little kick.
“Show some respect for the dead!” screamed Ellroy, who’d run into the room, ripped out his earpiece, skidded to a stop, and was now hopping from one foot to another. “You killed her, man! We’re witnesses! You’re going to prison for like the rest of your life. And you’ve fucked Jilly in the process. They’re gonna sue her ass for sure. Count your lucky stars, Terence, that none of us has any equity in this miserable fucking waste of a show!”
Jilly was last, her clipboard in hand.
She was white as a ghost.
No more sunburn.
“What have you done?” she asked me in a tiny voice.
“Jilly,” I said. “Hi! And Connor! What are you guys doing here?”
“Give me the gun, Cece,” said Connor, stepping forward. “It’s going to be okay.” He dropped his earphones to the floor and put out his hand.
“Tackle her, you idiot,” said Jilly, reverting to form.
But before he could make a move, the lovely, black-clad Esperanza marched into the party room dangling a satin-lined coffin marionette with my Rear Window homage doll lying in it, propped up on the Celine Dion throw pillow. Vincent, who was so good with his hands, had constructed it earlier this morning. Larry the limo guy followed, carrying a boom box blasting the familiar theme music from Alfred Hitchcock Presents.
“The music was written by Charles Gounod in 1878. Do you know the title, Jilly?” I asked. “It’s ‘Funeral March of a Marionette.’”
Just then, the audience came pouring in, hungry for ice cream. Little Auden stepped over the supine Lael and picked up a cup from the floor. “Vanilla is my favorite,” he said.
Alexander skipped right up to Lael and kneeled down. “Did you get ketchup on your clothes, La-La?” That was his pet name for her. “Don’t worry. I do that all the time.”
Lael popped up and ruffled his hair. “Yup. But Bridget said it’ll wash right out.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Connor, whipping around to look at me.
Jilly’s eyes bugged at least an inch out of her head.
Ellroy, I kid you not, passed out. It was a warm day, admittedly.
Terence grabbed a juice box from the floor, pierced it with the tiny straw, and squeezed so that a stream of organic apple juice came squirting out all over Ellroy’s face. Ellroy sputtered a little, then sat up.
Bridget walked right up to Lael with a bottle of Pellegrino in her hand. “If you wait too long, it’ll set.” She poured some on a napkin, then started dabbing at the ketchup on Lael’s chest.
“Stop that,” said Lael, wriggling away. “I can do it myself.”
Bridget trapped her at the door. “That jumpsuit is listed on eBay for eighteen hundred dollars. I’ll do it, if you don’t mind!”
At that point, Jilly started to laugh. Her laughter accelerated and was quickly accompanied by thigh-slapping, head-rolling, and other unseemly behaviors.
Connor stared at her, openmouthed. When he caught her eye, he chuckled once, purely experimentally.
“That’s right,” said Jilly. “Laugh away! This is utterly fantastic!!”
Connor chuckled again.
“Utterly fantastic!” echoed Terence, giving a little snort of glee.
Even Ellroy joined in, a company man to the bitter end.
“We’re going to make history!” Jilly crowed. “This is the absolute best! We’re all going to be famous! Reality TV will never be the same after Cece Caruso!” Jilly handed me her clipboard. “This is the release. Just go ahead and sign it, and then we can celebrate for real.”
“Nah,” I said.
Jilly’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, nah?”
I took the release form out of her hands and tore it up.
Annie and Vincent gave each other a high five.
“The thing is,” I explained, “reality can be extre
mely dull.”
Jilly’s skin had reverted to its characteristic mottled pink. “Excuse me?”
I smiled as I saw Gambino come into the room. “Hitch said that. I guess you must’ve missed it in all your research. That’s why we turn to art.”
“What are you saying, Cece?” Jilly asked.
“That I don’t sell myself cheap.”
“Oh, we weren’t going to pay you,” said Connor. “I mean, we could probably work something out in terms of reimbursing you for your expenses.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” interrupted Jilly. “Of course we’ll pay you. Industry standard, still to be determined.” She smiled a lipless lizard smile.
Bridget poked me in the ribs. “Don’t be hasty, Cece. Once you’re famous, you could get a hosting gig, or endorsements. Or even do a clothing line.”
“I know people at Mervyn’s,” said Jilly.
“Tempting. But the fact of the matter is, I’m a writer.” I looked directly into the camera hidden in the oversized, cellophane-wrapped lollipops, so nobody would miss it. “And if anybody’s going to tell my story, it’s going to be me.”
Who said another scrupulously researched biography would really get at the truth of Hitchcock?
Reality isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
That’s why we escape into fantasy, as Hitch understood so well.
And what could be more fantastic than a story of an accidentally sexy forty-something everywoman caught in the throes of an obsession with the greatest maestro of obsession who ever lived?
I already had my first line.
They write books about women like me, who cancel weddings and then go on the honeymoons by themselves.
I glanced over at Gambino, tossing baby Radha in the air.
The last line, it appeared, was still up for grabs.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to acknowledge my former editor Carolyn Marino, whose sage counsel I will miss; and to thank my editor, Katherine Nintzel, for her enthusiasm and quick eye. As always, I am grateful to my agent, Sandra Dijkstra, who is tireless in her support. Thanks also to Taryn Fagerness, and Elise Capron in her office.
The Hitchcock literature is fascinating and endless. As I worked my way through it, Donald Spoto’s The Dark Side of Genius, though somewhat dyspeptic, was extremely valuable. I turned to Patrick McGilligan’s Alfred Hitchcock: A Life in Darkness and Light whenever I needed answers to specific questions, and to Jean-Pierre Dufreigne’s Hitchcock Style whenever I needed inspiration. Peter Conrad’s brilliant Hitchcock Murders deserves special mention, as does Francois Truffaut’s revealing book-length interview with the ordinarily tight-lipped director.
I’m sure I traumatized my daughters by letting them watch The Birds too early in life, but they have always been a big part of my work. I wanted to thank Maud in particular for the metaphor on page 139; and Kyra for catching a contradiction in the final chapter. As for my husband, Peter, he introduced me to the concept of the Macguffin back when we were in grad school and it stuck, proving once again that he brings good things to my life.
About the Author
Susan Kandel is a former art critic for the Los Angeles Times. She has taught at New York University and UCLA, and served as editor of the international journal artext. She lives in West Hollywood, California, with her husband, two daughters, and dog.
www.susankandel.com
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Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
DIAL H FOR HITCHCOCK. Copyright © 2009 by Susan Kandel. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition September 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-195938-7
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