Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/10

by Dell Magazines

  I swing around the trolley and pull in behind her again. Which way is she turning? If it’s left, she’s headed to Golden Gate Park for a jog or lunch in Noe Valley at Firefly. If it’s right then she’s going to the Marina for shopping. I know her patterns better than I know my own wife’s (which, I admit, causes some friction between us).

  Today she’s not even trying to lose me. Most people think celebrities hate the entertainment press, but it’s not true. Sure, they all complain relentlessly about harassment, but they need us. If the only time they get their picture in the papers is for movie openings and press junkets, their box office will be dead. Nobody wants to read canned quotes about how great the director is, but give them a photo of two celebrities on a date and you’ve got an extra half million in sales for both the movie and the magazine.

  Ever notice that stars hit the beach topless when they have a new movie opening? It’s a show, and they’re all complicit. I once photographed a guy from one of those boy bands on dates with five different women in a week, even though everybody knew he was sleeping with his homeboy and “personal assistant.”

  Her next move surprises me. Instead of turning, she continues straight until she runs into the Legion of Honor. In the two years I’ve been covering her, I’ve never known her to go to a museum, but I’m intrigued. Maybe she’s working on her image.

  There are two great things about riding a motorcycle in San Francisco. One is that it’s easy to maneuver through traffic. The other is you can get parking anywhere. While she drives around looking for a space, I pull into one of a dozen spots set aside for bikes, get out my camera, and snap on a portrait lens as she reaches the museum entrance.

  “You mind?” I ask.

  “Would it matter if I did?”

  She poses for me anyway, stripping off her overcoat, hands on hips, shoulders turned, a classy look that’s vintage Hollywood. Her black velvet dress really shows off her fair skin and muscular arms. Good thing it’s sunny today—a rarity in this city.

  “What are you going to see?” I ask.

  “Pictures.”

  While she’s posing, several teenage girls come up seeking autographs and getting in the way of my shot. Lyla is polite as ever, signing for them and even posing for a grip and grin shot with two cute blondes. I take a couple shots myself of the scene but mostly try to stay out of the way.

  As I’m waiting, I notice one guy standing to the side who doesn’t fit in with the other fans. He’s in his forties, I’d guess, with red curly hair and a thin beard. He’s dressed respectably in jeans and a polo shirt, but he doesn’t seem to have a reason for being here. In one hand he’s got a point and shoot camera, but he’s not taking any photos. Instead he’s just staring at her.

  After Lyla walks away, he approaches me.

  “Get any good shots?”

  “A couple.”

  “You ever sell them?”

  “No,” I say and walk away.

  I make a mental note to keep an eye on him, then rebuke myself for not getting a shot earlier. It’s probably not worth anything, but I did promise Lyla’s publicist I would. Looking around, I can’t find him again and decide to let it go. He’s probably no one.

  The museum doesn’t allow photography, so I wait outside. Looking at that white marble facade, which looks just like an ancient Greek theater, I can’t help but think about the scene in Vertigo where Kim Novak’s character is there staring at the painting of Carlotta Valdes. That was me at the Ansel Adams museum as a kid. I couldn’t get enough of those black and white landscapes, the only art I ever really appreciated.

  After college, I started out as a stringer for the local papers, taking pictures of Giants games, car crashes, fires—your basic ambulance chaser. At the time I was making a marginal living, sharing a two-bedroom apartment with three other people (and that was before the dot-com boom made this place totally unaffordable). Then one day I caught Julia Roberts and Ben Bratt driving a red convertible through the Mission before anybody knew they were dating. That shot sold for fifty thousand, which was twice what I made for the entire year before. Since you can’t live in The City on a hundred a day, I switched to entertainment reporting. It’s not that different, really. You still have to cultivate sources, rush around a lot, document what’s happening. The major difference is the pay. While most journalists follow the slow road to starvation, I’ve got a flat in the Sunset and a wife who can afford to stay home and raise our two daughters. If that makes me a bad guy, I guess I am.

  Since I’ve bagged my first shot of the day, I allow myself a lunch break. A hotdog cart just outside the entrance is serving them just the way I like: steamed, with fresh sauerkraut and relish. I wash it down with some vinegar-and-salt potato chips and a soda, then take a seat on a park bench to check my voice mail.

  “Hey, Mitch, it’s Joe from the Clift. That ballplayer you were looking for? He just left in a burgundy Porche 911. But if you want a shot of their starting pitcher, he’s having a drink in the bar right now.”

  A burgundy 911. Didn’t I see one pulling out of the lot while I was eating? The message came in an hour ago while I was fighting traffic, more than enough time for the shortstop to drive across town.

  Breaking my own rules, I pay for admission to the museum and check the galleries. Fortunately it’s small, so I can be sure. She’s gone. Must have sneaked out some side exit, but I talk to a guard just to be sure.

  “Who?” he says.

  “Last year’s MVP.”

  “I don’t watch baseball.”

  The guard’s a young Asian guy with a punk haircut, which would explain his indifference to the national pastime.

  “What about Lyla?”

  He shrugs, totally stumped.

  “A good-looking brunette in a black dress?”

  “We get a lot like that in here.”

  Turning to go, I realize he’s tipped his hand. If he’s not a baseball fan, how does he know which sport I’m talking about? They must have told him to keep quiet.

  Running outside, I jump on the bike and head back toward the center of town. The question is where? At traffic lights, I call all my usual sources but come up empty. Nobody’s seen them yet, or they’re all playing dumb. My only option is to try her house.

  It sits in Twin Peaks, which ordinarily would be only a fifteen-minute drive, but today the lunch traffic is terrible. I have to slalom through cars all the way across town and nearly get sideswiped by a bus at one intersection. By the time I reach her front gate, it’s nearly one o’clock. The shortstop has only got a few hours before he needs to be at Pac Bell park. Why not wait until after the game’s over and then go out?

  Her wood fence is ten feet high (which technically is illegal, but for celebs the city will look the other way), and I have to climb up the neighbor’s steps to get a view inside the courtyard. The Porsche is parked in the driveway, but I can’t see any sign of them. Taking out my 500 mm telephoto, I scan the house. California recently outlawed using long lenses to photograph inside private property, but not just to see. At least I’ll have some idea what they’re up to. Her house is one of those modern places where all the walls are solid glass, so I can see inside most of the rooms. Still no activity: they’re either in the game room at the back of the house, or they’re avoiding me.

  “What are you doing on my steps?” says a woman nearby.

  I look up to see a bleached-blonde society maven watching me from her window.

  “Just getting a shot of the skyline,” I say.

  I wave thanks and descend the steps before she has a chance to call the police. Just in case, I move my bike to a spot just up the street where I can keep an eye on the driveway, but where I’ll be invisible from the house. In this profession I’ve learned patience waiting outside restaurants and clubs for hours. It’s a peculiar kind of patience, though, one more about anticipation than forbearance. During times like these, I check my equipment, watch the sun, observe the run of the place, and pre-visualize the sho
t I want. People always dismiss paparazzi photos because they’re grainy or out of focus, but really getting shots like ours requires more skill and planning than photographing wildlife or news. Celebrities are unpredictable, and you have to be prepared to fire in a moment when their expression is unplanned, or their clothing disarranged.

  As I’m taking in the view of the city below, watching fog rolling in toward the Golden Gate, her gate rolls open to reveal the Porsche. I raise the camera and zoom in tight. Exhaust comes out of the tailpipe, but the car idles. Because of the angle, I can’t tell who’s in it. Then I see her emerge from the house and walk to the driver’s window, only now she’s wearing cutoff jeans, pump sandals, and a bikini top. In a moment, he leans out and kisses her on the lips. My finger pulls the trigger like a machine gunner, firing off a dozen frames as he backs out and leaves. When the gate closes, I check the viewer and there it is: a perfect shot of the kiss with both their faces visible. This should be worth twenty grand at least.

  Packing up my gear, I imagine a bidding war between magazines. How many should I call to maximize the price? I’ve narrowed the list to ten when a single man walks up the hill and stops in front of Lyla’s gate. He pulls on the handle to check that it’s locked. Instinctively I grab my camera for a closer view. It looks like the guy from the museum, same red hair, same scraggly beard, same slim build, though now he’s wearing a gray jumpsuit like the guys who work for utility companies. He looks around to see if anyone is watching, and I snap a couple frames. My instincts tell me he’s up to something and sure enough, a moment later he pulls himself up and over the gate with a dexterity I haven’t seen since middle school.

  The words of Lyla’s publicist come back to me. “There’s some creepy fan who’s been threatening her.” Could he have followed me to her house? The prospect that I’m responsible for setting her up sickens me. Returning to the neighbor’s porch, I scan the property with my zoom lens. In the kitchen, a figure is moving around, but it’s too far away to make out who it is. I snap a couple frames (since I can enlarge them later on) and watch as the figure reaches out and grabs the arms of someone hidden behind the refrigerator. Suddenly, the two of them swing around and I can see her clearly. Her heavy brunette waves mask her face, but her body language is clear: she’s afraid.

  With one hand I call the police on my cell phone, while keeping an eye on the camera lens. I give the dispatcher a quick rundown of what’s happening but refuse to give my name since I don’t want anyone to know that I’m looking inside her place. Then she falls away, literally, to the floor and disappears from view. Crap, what am I supposed to do?

  I’ve always preferred to be an observer, to record what other people are doing rather than making news myself, but I can’t help it. Before I even know what’s happening I’m clambering over the wall, which is slick as ice. Having two cameras dangling around my neck is a handicap, too, but this guy must be a gymnast to have done it so easily.

  Inside the courtyard, I look toward the kitchen, where a body is sprawled out on the floor. Moving to the window, I’m surprised to see that it’s the redheaded guy, whose hair is now stained much darker with blood. He’s not moving, and from the looks of it he won’t be again. A wood baseball bat lies next to him. Lyla is nowhere in sight. My relief that she got away is quickly replaced by a practical thought. This is the shot of a lifetime. A dead man in a celebrity’s house? No one gets a chance like that twice.

  I slide open the glass door, avoid the spreading pool of blood, and adjust for the interior lighting. One of my mentors once told me, “get something, then worry about making it good.” I take his advice, firing off a quick dozen frames, then pausing to work on the composition. Ideally, I’ll get one with both his face and a framed portrait of her in the background, but the angles are all wrong. Though it’s a violation of all my journalistic ethics, I decide that rearranging the scene won’t hurt anyone and move the portrait to a countertop. After two shots I reach for my wide angle lens, only to hear another click behind me. Looking up, there’s Lyla with a point and shoot camera aimed back at me.

  “Gotcha,” she says.

  The police sirens follow immediately after, and pretty soon I find myself sitting on the living room floor with my hands cuffed behind my back. In the other room, I hear her talking to a police officer.

  “They’ve both been stalking me,” she says. “I heard them fighting in the kitchen, and when I came downstairs that poor man was bleeding to death.”

  Her voice rises and falters with emotion, cracking at just the right moment. It’s the best performance she’s ever given.

  “I got a picture of the photographer standing over the body,” she says.

  As I’m listening, it occurs to me that I have no photos of the two of them fighting, none that will exonerate me in the least. At the critical moment, my worst instincts failed me. What’s a photo worth if it can’t even save me from myself?

  Copyright © 2010 David Hagerty

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  Fiction

  MY HEART’S ABHORRENCE

  MARIANNE WILSKI STRONG

  Art by Edward Kinsella III

  G-r-r-r—there go, my heart’s abhorrence!

  Water your damned flower-pots, do!

  Robert Browning, “Soliloquy of the Spanish Cloister”

  The monks, sandals scraping over the stone tiled floor, filed in holding the coffin up high.

  No one wept, or if they did, the hoods draped over their heads and the gloom of the crypt chapel with its dark ceiling hid the tears.

  One monk sighed.

  The others seated near him turned their heads slowly, guardedly, to look at him.

  Brother Leo was not weeping. He was staring at the coffin as if willing the occupant to rise and speak to him.

  Abbot John held up his staff and motioned to the space in front of the steps before the altar. The six monks carrying the coffin set it down gingerly. The red tendrils of the tile design seemed to seep out from beneath the coffin like rivulets of blood.

  In the past several months, many a coffin had been placed in just this spot, its now forgotten occupants newly blessed by Abbot John, then sent to a resting place in the new cemetery on the slope of mountain whose bare, rocky peak stood out in sharp relief against the deep, unremitting blue of the southern Arizona sky.

  But this coffin was different. It held the body of one of the monastery’s own.

  Brother Luke was dead.

  When the funeral prayers were completed, the monks filed somberly out of the dark crypt into the bright sunlight. Only Brother Leo stayed behind, staring at the spot where the coffin had been. He traced the design of the floor tiles: Red tendrils snaking out from intricate vines curled around the edges of the quatrefoils in which stood clawed animals, rising on their hind legs and twisting their heads round to glare at each other.

  The tiled floor was actually quite beautiful: an intricate Gothic design in glorious reds, blues, and golds. Brother Leo recognized the beauty. But something about the tiled floor disturbed him. When he had arrived at the monastery two years ago, he had been told that Abbot John had had the original floor of native design retiled. Abbot John had exquisite tastes. Still, the floor disturbed Brother Leo.

  He shook his head, made a sign of the cross, rose, and left the crypt church.

  Abbot John snapped his missal shut and stared out the leaded window at Brother Leo.

  “Again,” Abbot John muttered to himself. “Again, he is working near the entrance to the old cemetery. Closer and closer with his vegetables and flowers. Why? What is he up to?”

  His eyes followed Brother Leo as the monk moved from plant to plant, from the lemon and lime trees to the lettuces and squashes.

  Abbot John hated squash. He hated Brother Leo too.

  Does he hate me as much as I hate him? Abbot John mused, unconsciously rubbing his hands over the soft leather of his missal cover. He does; he must.
How could he not? He lacks what I have: my position, my knowledge. He longs for these. That is why he defies me, if only with his eyes.

  He watched Brother Leo watering the Mexican bird-of-paradise flowers. “Just like Brother Leo,” Abbot John muttered, “to love so showy, so gaudy a flower, so—” He searched for the right word. “So passionate a flower, like sin itself.”

  Brother Leo moved to the snapdragons. He bent over, snapping dried leaves from the stems. Behind him, a jackrabbit hopped warily toward the lettuces.

  Abbot John smiled. Silently, he urged the rabbit on to the lettuces. “Eat, my friend, eat,” he said. Some of Brother Leo’s lettuces were almost sweet; others a little bitter. Abbot John preferred tomatoes: rich, red, ripe tomatoes with seeds that one could savor on the tongue and bite with a satisfying little snap.

  Brother Leo straightened up. The jackrabbit fled.

  Well, Abbot John thought. He would have eaten little enough. Not like the javelinas, those piglike beasts with their prickly black and gray hairs and their pink snouts, smelling out food and danger that their little piggy eyes could not see. Dangerous beasts, fast on their little pig legs. They could rocket their tough, cannonball bodies into a person and rip open a throat with those sharp teeth.

  Abbot John had watched them approach the monastery, trotting down from the hills in the early evening, headed through the old cemetery toward Brother Leo’s garden.

  Abbot John thought about that. One of these days, a javelina would attack Brother Leo and mangle him. Or, perhaps, Brother Leo might fall into one of the sinkholes of the old cemetery, collapse onto a rotting coffin with its yellowed bones, and drown himself in the foul water that had seeped toward the cemetery from the old copper mine not far off.

  The old cemetery was a dangerous place. “I ought to let him kill himself there,” Brother John muttered. Still, he had to warn him. Brother Leo would have to obey. After all, the head of the monastery was responsible for the safety of all his monks, even one so independent and lax in religious duties as Brother Leo.