Dial H for Hitchcock (18 page)

T
he policeman got out of his car and walked around to my window.

I rolled it down, terror washing over me. “How are you, today, Officer?” If he asked for my license, I was done for.

He didn’t take off his sunglasses. They were that cop kind, dark and opaque. “Not good.”

Might as well get it over with. “What’s up?”

“What’s up,” he repeated. “Five years I’m on the job, never had anybody ask me what was up.”

I laughed nervously.

Now he took off his glasses. “It’s not funny.”

I shook my head. “No.”

“You were going twenty-five in a forty-five-mile-per-hour zone. That’s illegal.”

“Was I really?” I batted my eyelashes.

“Stop that.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, embarrassed. “I was just trying to turn onto this street here to buy a map to the stars’ homes.” I pointed to the guy sitting on the lawn chair, who gave me a little wave.

“Not too many stars in your neck of the woods,” the cop said.

“Excuse me?”

“Arizona. There’s Jenna Jameson, the porn actress, of course. Her father was a cop. She lives in Scottsdale.”

“I’m from Phoenix.”

“Those pornmeisters are into all sorts of illegal activities. Drugs. Guns. Gambling. She must’ve broken her dad’s heart.”

I nodded, thankful he wasn’t reading me my rights.

“It’s a slippery slope,” he said. “You start small, but things can snowball—excuse me.” He’d received a call on his radio. “314 on Rodeo Drive,” he said. “Right away.”

He leaned into the window again. “Duty calls. Indecent exposure at Gucci. I’m letting you off with a warning this time.”

“Thank you, Officer.”

He put his shades back on. “Drive safe, Miss. And welcome to Bel Air.”

The guy with the maps wanted to hear the whole story, but I wasn’t in the mood for conversation. He was. Before I could stop him, he recounted the entire history of the star map industry, which began in 1936 when a man named Wesley Lake parked himself at the corner of Baroda Drive and Sunset to sell his maps to sightseers eager to meet their matinee idols. His daughter Vivienne took over the family business in the mid-fifties. She was so beloved that Glen
Campbell, who lived up the street, used to have her over regularly for tea. Nonetheless, in 1973 she was charged with violating the law by conducting her business along the roadside. It went all the way to the California Supreme Court, which in a landmark decision affirmed Vivienne’s right to free speech. “She was Beverly Hills’s own Patrick Henry,” the guy said, waving an arm in the air. “You know, give me liberty or give me death?”

It was a hell of a sales pitch. I handed him a twenty and took the map.

Sure enough, there was Carole Lombard. 609 Saint Cloud. Also on Saint Cloud were Louis B. Mayer, Ronald and Nancy Reagan, and the Fresh Prince. Small world.

With the map spread out on my lap, I followed the red arrows into the verdant, faux-gated paradise that is Bel Air. The “faux” means the gates don’t actually close. They’re there to remind you that you don’t belong. The topography reiterates the message. Houses are hidden from view by looming hedges and high walls. Streets wind around one another like pretzels, meaning if you don’t have a chauffeur you might as well forget it. Not to mention there are no sidewalks. In fact I didn’t see anybody around except gardeners, pool men, and security guys in vaguely menacing white cars.

Considering the neighborhood, 609 was a dump.

I wasn’t sure anybody was even living there anymore. The driveway was strewn with leaves and yellowed newspapers. The gate stretching across it was covered with brown canvas so you couldn’t see in. However, somebody had cut a little hole at the bottom. Someone with an avid interest in the former residents, perhaps. Or maybe it was for the dog. Claustrophobia is
common among animals. If I accidentally close Buster into the bedroom, I pay for it, believe me.

I got down on all fours and peered through the hole.

The Hitchcocks’s former home was brick, modestly sized, and shrouded by overgrown trees and bushes—eucalyptus, yucca, eugenia. The bottlebrush was enormous, with fuchsia blossoms rather than the usual red. I closed my eyes for a minute and tried to imagine myself pulling into the driveway in my Studebaker (or whatever the 1940s equivalent to a Camry was), wearing my periwinkle silk doupioni cocktail dress with the pleated bodice that wraps around the front obi-style, for one of Hitch’s famous blue dinners, where he served blue soup, blue venison, and blue ice cream.

I opened my eyes again. Then I rubbed them. Then I screamed.

There was an arm in the bushes at the far end of the driveway, by the trash can.

Mottled but still pinkish.

With a hand at the end.

I spun around.

On the other side of the street four gardeners in green coveralls were pruning some gorgeous climbing roses.

“Hello!” I yelled.
“¡Hola!”

“Beverly Hillbillies and Barry Manilow?” one of them asked, putting down his clippers. “Go straight.”

“No, no!” I dashed across the street. The place where they were working looked like the White House. “There’s an emergency!”

They gathered around, murmuring to one another in Spanish.

“Elizabeth Taylor,” said a younger one. He had a crew cut and spoke excellent English. “On Nimes. That is the same street as Mac Davis.”

“You don’t understand. I’m talking something awful. A disembodied arm!”

They looked puzzled

“Does anybody live in that house?” I pointed to 609.

They went into a huddle.

“No,” said the crew cut.

The first guy said something to him in Spanish.

The crew cut turned back to me. “My dad says there were some people here yesterday, but just visiting.”

“Where there’s an arm,” I cried, “there’s bound to be other body parts!”

They had nothing to say to that. I ran my finger across my throat. “Dead.
Muerto?”

The fourth gardener, who had a double chin and braces, reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. The others followed me across the street.

I crouched down in front of the peephole. “Look.”

I moved out of the way, and the crew cut kneeled down. Then he turned to me and said, “Dummy.”

“That’s not very nice,” I said.

“It’s a dummy, Miss.
Maniqui,”
he said to the others.

“That’s impossible,” I said, pushing him out of the way. I peered in again, then felt my cheeks get hot.

That arm sure did look plastic. Kind of shiny and all.

Just then, I heard a car screeching to a halt and a door slamming.

Not the police, thank God. Bel Air Patrol. Piece of cake.

The patrolman had John Wayne fantasies. You could tell by the way he walked, like he had a saddle between his legs. “What seems to be the trouble?”

“No trouble,” I said, standing up. “None at all.”

“April Fool!” said the gardener with the double chin. He was trying to help me out, which was nice.

“Today’s Halloween, my friend,” said John Wayne.

“Trick or treat!” I said, brandishing a Necco wafer.

The patrolman shook his head. “Not while I’m on duty.”

“We have green cards,” said the crew cut.

“What about you?” he asked me. “What’s your business here?”

“Just a tourist,” I said, smiling. “Visiting from Tucson. Go Suns!”

“I think all of you had better be moseying along,” he said.

“Would you look at the time?” I glanced at my watch. “Do you know the way back to the Bel-Air Hotel?”

“You a guest there?”

“Um-hmm.”

“Don’t leave before trying their tortilla soup,” John Wayne said. “It’s out of this world. The secret is the tomato base.”

The first gardener started yelling in Spanish.

The crew cut nodded vociferously, then stepped forward. “Tomatoes are not the secret. Masa flour is the secret.” He nodded. “My dad just wanted you to know.”

The Hitchcocks didn’t stay at 609 Saint Cloud for long. In the spring of 1942, they purchased an elegant colonial shaded by lush trees that backed directly onto the Bel-Air Country Club’s golf
course. Number 10957 Bellagio Road was in move-in condition, but it took twenty years to complete the redesign of the kitchen.

For Hitchcock, eating was serious business.

His father, a grocer in London’s East End, insisted on potatoes at every meal. The habit stuck. Hitch wolfed them whole, halved, diced, sliced, boiled, baked, fried, sautéed, cottage-fried, double-baked, and, in his waning years, mashed. At age twenty-seven, he weighed two hundred pounds; at forty, he weighed close to four hundred. At forty-four, by his own admission, his ankles hung over his socks and his belt reached up to his necktie. Not that he particularly minded.

His weight was his armor, his insulation.

Which makes it doubly odd that in his work food is so unfailingly gruesome: the milk poisoned, the eggs scrambled to resemble brains, the ketchup explosive. Murder victims are baked into pies, then devoured. Corpses are concealed in sacks of potatoes. Chickens have necks meant to be strangled, and breasts—don’t ask.

But 10957 Bellagio Road would have to wait for another day.

I had a date in less than an hour.

I drove directly to the Hotel Bel-Air, known for its blue lake filled with white swans, beloved of brides and Oprah Winfrey, who threw a slumber party here when she turned forty. And for its tortilla soup, I hear.

“Checking in?” asked the valet, handing me a ticket.

“Um-hmm.” I grabbed the suitcase out of the trunk.

“Can I get that for you?” he asked.

“I can take care of it myself.”

I sailed past the registration desk and a bouquet of creamy
white calla lilies, and walked downstairs to the bathroom, done up in pretty pinks and greens, where I proceeded to set up shop.

Out came the blue-black mascara, the black kohl liner, the baby pink blush, and the very berry gloss. The brush, the curling iron, and the mousse. The bronze ankle-wrap sandals and clutch. The plum, crimson, and fuchsia tiered dress with plunging neckline. The matching bolero. And a nearly empty bottle of Serge Lutens’s Fleur d’Oranger, which smells like the first day of spring.

Nobody bothered me for twenty minutes. After that, a maid came in with a feather duster and the wherewithal not to say a word. She dusted around my makeup, then disappeared, returning moments later with a garment steamer for my dress.

When I was ready, I went over to the concierge and asked for directions to Bonhams & Butterfields.

“Ah. The sale of Very Important Celebrity Memorabilia.” He checked his watch.

I nodded. It was almost seven.

The concierge said he’d be happy to provide me with a map. He wondered, though, if I knew about the complimentary limousine service, available for guests of the hotel for destinations within a five-mile radius. Before I could say a word, a man with a very black cap took my suitcase and led me out to a very black car with a very full bar in the back seat.

I poured myself a Diet Coke, put on some music, and sunk back against the plush leather seat.

Blondes may be nearing extinction, but they still know how to have more fun.

T
he limo glided to a stop in front of Bonhams & Butterfields. The driver ran around to open my door. “When would you like me to come back for you, Miss?” he asked, extending a hand.

I had trouble pinpointing an answer. It depended on so many things. Whether or not I could muster up the nerve to confront Ben. Whether or not he’d admit what he’d done. Whether or not he’d try to get away. Whether or not he’d try to kill me.

I.e., could be thirty minutes, an hour, or don’t bother, I’ll be seeing you in the hereafter.

I stepped up onto the curb, opened my purse and pulled out two hundred-dollar bills. “Can you keep the motor running?” I was starting to believe I was rich. That couldn’t be good.

He tipped his hat and nabbed the dough simultaneously. “My pleasure.”

Inside, a pack of women wearing expertly tailored pantsuits
prowled the Berber carpet. When they saw me, they bared their whitened teeth. Three of them tried handing me catalogs. Another proffered cocktail wieners. A fifth popped open a bottle of champagne. A sixth, all business, asked if I’d like to register to bid.

After photocopying the driver’s license I handed her (Anita’s), she gave me a paddle.

“The sale started a couple of minutes ago.” She gestured toward the open door. “But there are still some seats down in the front.”

I stood in the doorway, surveying the room. It reminded me of church. There were maybe seventy-five people seated on hard wooden chairs. Most were dressed in sober tones of black and gray. There were numerous hats. Half a dozen small dogs. At least two people dragging portable oxygen tanks. All eyes faced front, where the auctioneer was taking bids for Lot 1009, an unused check from the account of Marilyn Monroe and Arthur Miller at First National City Bank of New York. A photograph of the wrinkled check was projected on a flat screen TV over the podium, along with a snapshot of the unhappy couple on the set of
The Misfits
in 1961.

I turned to the young woman. “I need to know where the exits are.” Just in case.

“Are you a fire marshal?” All color drained from her face. “I didn’t know you people worked on holidays.”

“No, I’m an agoraphobe,” I replied, fanning myself with the paddle. “This is the first time I’ve left my house in seven months.”

“Good for you.” She pointed to two exit signs at the rear of the room, then fled.

No sign of Ben yet. I found two seats on the far aisle and squeezed past six annoyed people. “Sorry,” I said. “Almost there.” I sat down on a pair of glasses that apparently belonged to the woman on the other side of me.

“They’re Cartier,” she hissed, grabbing for my bottom.

“Allow me.” The frames were covered with tiny gold spikes. Good thing they hadn’t damaged my dress.

Now there was spirited bidding underway for Lot 1010, a pair of false eyelashes worn by Barbra Streisand in
Hello, Dolly!
They were handmade in Spain and came with adhesive. One of the combatants was a short woman wearing a ruby ring the size of a turkey gizzard and a triple strand of pearls you could barely see because of her chins. The other was an older gentleman who waved his gold-tipped cane in the air each time he wanted to increase the bid.

At $2800, the woman nodded her head.

At $3000, the gentleman’s cane shot skyward.

“Do I hear three thousand three hundred?” the auctioneer called out.

The bejeweled woman’s husband, who was wearing an ascot, began wrestling his wife for the paddle. She protested audibly. Everyone in the room was now aware he’d never made a dime of his own and had married her only for her money.

“Fair warning and last call,” the auctioneer cried.

The husband was still attempting to restrain his wife. He’d be sleeping on the couch tonight, that was for sure.

The hammer came crashing down.

“Yes!” came a voice from the front row. The old gentleman had gotten the eyelashes. With tax and the twenty-percent buyer’s premium, he was in for almost $4000.

“Next up is Lana Turner’s violet silk moiré makeup case from the fifties,” said the auctioneer. “We’ll start the bidding at one thousand two hundred.”

I loved Lana Turner. She was discovered drinking a Coke. Most people know that, but don’t know that her high school boyfriend was Judge Wapner from
The People’s Court,
nor that she left the bulk of her estate to her maid, not her daughter, even though her daughter killed the mobster Johnny Stompanato to protect her. Also, Lana Turner wore a turban better than anybody except maybe a Sikh.

The bidding escalated rapidly to $4700.

I looked around the room. Who were these people? Oh, my God. Was that Jilly? My neighbor? How odd. I waited until she turned her head. Yes, that was definitely her. The sunburn still hadn’t faded. What was she doing here? I turned the pages of the catalog. Maybe she needed another hideous item for her bedroom. Another pink patchwork quilt? Something lacy with gingham? Oh, yes. Here it was. No doubt in my mind. She was after the last item in the auction. A four-poster Gothic Revival oak bed from the late nineteenth century, carved with nine full-figure saints. The previous owner was Cher.

Still no Ben. I picked up the paddle and started fanning myself again.

“With the lady on the far aisle now, one thousand eight hundred for Sammy Davis Jr.’s tortoiseshell snuffbox!” the auctioneer called out.

I turned around to see who the sucker was.

The man sitting behind me gave me the thumbs-up. “It’s a beaut,” he whispered. “I saw one owned by Peter Lawford on eBay for double the price.”

I turned around and cried, “No! I’m not bidding. I’m an agoraphobe!”

The auctioneer glared at me. “I apologize, ladies and gentlemen. It seems we are back at one thousand seven hundred, one thousand seven hundred with the gentleman in the fedora for this wonderful piece of Rat Pack memorabilia. Do I hear one thousand eight hundred?”

This was my first auction. I didn’t like the atmosphere. No windows. No air. That was how they confused you. By cutting off blood supply to the brain. No wonder those people needed oxygen.

Was that Gambino in the third row? It looked like the back of his neck.

God, I was hallucinating now. This entrapment thing was clearly a terrible idea. I wasn’t prepared. I’d never even been a Girl Scout. My mother always steered me away from anything that reeked of female empowerment. Oh, why had I been so rash? If I’d been thinking I would’ve called Detective McQueen this morning and convinced her to put a wire on me. Maybe there was still time.

“Hey,” Ben murmured, sliding in next to me.

Too late.

“I almost didn’t recognize you.” He lifted a lock of my blond hair. “Va-va-voom.”

My heart started pounding, but not in a positive way. He was wearing jeans, an untucked white shirt, and a black sweater vest, which made me immediately suspicious. And cologne. Something outdoorsy, like hay. Or maybe wheat. I looked down at his feet. That was where it all fell apart. He should’ve been wearing Timberland boots, not those god-
awful Gucci loafers. Those were the shoes of an unregenerate criminal.

I had to focus. I was supposed to be giving him a false sense of confidence. I channeled Lana Turner. I tossed my hair like this was a shampoo commercial. “I’m glad you like my new look.”

“Oh, I do.”

“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “I got it done at a fabulous salon in Bakersfield. You ever been to Bakersfield, Ben?” So much for reeling him in slowly.

“Bakersfield? No, I don’t think so.” He checked his phone. “I thought there might be a message from my client. He seems to be running late. Can I see that catalog for a second?”

He flipped through it. “Cece, did you see this? Lot 1038? Rhonda Fleming’s costume for the dream sequence in
Spellbound!”

Now that would be something to own. Salvador Dali himself spent two hours with a large scissors cutting up a four-hundred-dollar Dior negligee to create it, but when it was shown to the Hays Office, the censors insisted on additional shreds to cover Fleming’s exposed midriff, thighs, and breasts. Hitchcock pretty much washed his hands of the whole scene once Selznick butchered it further. Still, the costume would look amazing in the window of Bridget’s store. She’d been talking about wanting to do a Hitchcock-themed display for Christmas, with beautiful fifties suits and hundreds of tiny coffins. Hitchcock loved to give tiny coffins as holiday gifts. He gave one to a young Melanie Griffith, with a minieffigy of her mother, Tippi Hedren, inside. Sweet.

“Here we go,” said Ben. “This one belongs to my client.”
He tapped his finger on the page in question. “Brown leather football, signed and inscribed to Lynda Carter, TV’s
Wonder Woman,
by Joe Namath, reading in full, ‘Hi Lynda/Stay Happy!/Love/Joe Namath.’ Lot 1224. One of the last items. I’m sure Tom will be here by then.”

Like there was a Tom.

“I think you’ll enjoy meeting him,” Ben said. “He’s great. His wife, Jeri, loves vintage clothing, too. Maybe they can join us for dinner?”

Tom and Jeri? He was going to have to do better than that.

Ben took my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Let’s go outside and see if we can find them.”

“No,” I said, sitting back down. My heart started pounding again.

“Why not?”

“Why not?” I repeated.

“Yeah,” said Ben. “Why not?”

“Because I want to bid on the next item.”

Lot 1062 was a custom throw pillow with needlework on one side reading, “Q: Name Two Things That Will Survive a Nuclear War,” and on the other, “A: Cockroaches and Celine Dion.” Just my luck.

The auctioneer said, “Do I hear five hundred?”

Ben looked at me.

“Oops,” I said. “I dropped my paddle. Now where is that thing?”

He bent down to get it. “Here you go, Cece.”

I raised the paddle in the air as slowly as humanly possible.

“I have five hundred with the lady on the far aisle. Do I have that correct this time?”

I gave him a weak approximation of a smile.

“How about six hundred? Six hundred dollars for this wonderful novelty pillow, once owned by the late Tiny Tim?”

Not a single paddle went up.

“Lucky girl,” said Ben. “You’re going to get it.”

I turned to the woman with the killer Cartier glasses and whispered, “Wanna go halfsies?”

“Sold!” said the auctioneer, bringing down the hammer. “For five hundred dollars.”

Maybe my accountant, Mr. Keshigian, could call it a business expense.

“No more excuses,” said Ben, taking my hand. “We’re getting out of here.”