Death by Hitchcock (2 page)

Chapter 3

That morning Edwina taught a class in Introductory Particle Physics, followed by Quantum Computation and Information. During the lunch break
, she forgot about Earl’s, and instead, settled into her office with a sandwich. After nearly an hour of marking papers, she looked at her watch.  Forty minutes until her next class.  Time enough for a visit.

Edwina’s old advisor and mentor, Professor Nedda Cake, getting on in years, kept regular office hours, and taught a graduate course twice a week.  In their primes, Professor Cake and her late husband had done important work in quantum information theory. The legendary Professor Cake’s graduate seminar was still one of the most popular classes at the college.

Childless and widowed, Nedda Cake’s life changed radically after the recent death of her sister, at the age of ninety-six. The sister’s middle-aged daughter, who had lived with her mother all her life in an English village outside of Oxford, had seemingly become untethered by the death of her aged mother.  Honeysuckle Blessington gratefully accepted her Aunt Nedda’s invitation to move to America and live with her in New Guilford. Nedda lived alone in a large house, and given the circumstances, inviting her sister’s daughter to live with her seemed like the right thing to do.

Edwina was aware of a few things about Honeysuckle Blessington. That she worked as a French translator. That she had once fallen in love with her cousin, Malcom Dicks-Pye
––but had never married after it ended badly. And that his rejection sent her into an emotional tailspin that lasted for decades.

Now in her early sixties, Honeysuckle remained a handsome woman. Although a fondness for pastries had
padded her once trim figure, neither time nor gravity had done much to alter her classical facial features.  She wore her waist-length hair in the same girlish braid from her college days, but its glossy brown color was now dull and streaked with gray.   

Edwina knocked on Nedda Cake’s door.

“Come,” came a thin voice.

Edwina poked her head inside.

“Got a few minutes?” she said.

“Always,” Nedda replied.

Professor Cake was seated at her desk wearing a wool skirt, cardigan sweater, and a pale yellow blouse.  Her white hair was neatly fashioned into braids that wrapped around her head like a crown. Sunlight streamed in through the windows behind her.

“Just wanted to stop by and say hi,” Edwina said.

“Sit down, my dear.”

“I saw Honeysuckle this morning at that new tea place downtown,” Edwina continued.  “She was with a friend.”

“Oh?  That’s nice to hear,” Nedda smiled.

“It looked like she was enjoying herself,” Edwina added.

The old professor leaned back in her chair.

“Thank-you for passing that along, Edwina
––you know how I worry about Honeysuckle,” she sighed, unleashing a tumble of words. 

“Such a mercurial girl. I find I become quite tense at times, wondering what she’ll get up to next,” the old professor said.

“It’s probably nothing,” she added, “only, I find her judgment seems to be lacking at times.” 

“What do you mean?” Edwina said.

“Oh––Honeysuckle’s terribly sweet, really. But I’ve begun noticing a rather narcissistic streak in her. The other day she took my housekeeper’s bicycle.  Just took it. Without asking to borrow it, or anything. We thought it must have been stolen. Then when she finally returned it a few days later, she announced she had taken Oona’s bike because she
needed
it.  No apology, simple as that.  Like a child, really.”

“Maybe Honeysuckle didn’t realize Oona needs her bike to get to work?” Edwina queried.

“She knows that very well.  That’s what I mean.  At times she takes alarmingly little notice of others,” Nedda said, shaking her head.

“Is she making many friends in New Guilford? It looked like she was with one this morning,” Edwina said.

“She seems to be getting on,” Nedda replied.  “She’s gotten involved with the Garden Club, and actually gave a talk last week about growing plants to make herbal remedies and things. And she’s become quite keen on the Film Society, too. Gives her someplace to go on Friday nights, which is nice.”

Nedda swiveled slowly in her chair and gazed uneasily out the window. She soon seemed lost in thought, and a relaxed silence fell over the office.

“So, how’s your class going?” Edwina asked after some moments.

“So far, so good,” Nedda replied, grateful to be pulled back from her musings.  “My students ask good questions, and they seem motivated. There’s no Edwina in the bunch, but you can’t have everything,” she chuckled, dabbing at her nose with a handkerchief. 

Professor Cake opened a desk drawer and pulled out a brightly colored tin box, the kind fruitcakes come in.  She removed the lid and held the box out to Edwina.

“I’d never say ‘no’ to your shortbread,” Edwina said, reaching for a cookie.  “Thank-you.”

“I keep meaning to bake my spotty bread for you one of these days. I learned the recipe from an old Welsh woman named Lucy Trench when I was newly married,” Nedda said. 

“Good Lord, she must have been in her nineties, as I am now. God, I thought she was ancient! Well, I suppose she was. Lucy Trench was a friend of my husband’s family, and over the years Frank and I would drive up to Wales to see her every once in a while.  Somewhere along the coast, although I can’t remember the name of the village, now.  Porthmadog, perhaps?  I remember there was a pub there that served delicious beef sandwiches.”

“Now, then.  Have another piece of shortbread,” the old woman said, holding the tin out. “Now, let’s get down to business.  Got any tittle-tattle?”

Edwina laughed.

“Let’s see. You know that kid who comes over here from the Film Studies Department for tea?” Edwina said, biting into a cookie.  “The guy I play chess with?”

“That rather heavy young man with glasses?” Professor Cake said.

“That’s him, Milo Marcus. So, according to Milo, the head of his department is seeing one of his students––and his wife kicked him out of the house.”

“Oh, dear,” Professor Cake said. “You know something?  I believe Honeysuckle has mentioned him
––Professor Winner, isn’t it? She attends most of the Film Society showings. She’s forever running over to Hexley Hall to check on the schedule of films and speakers and whatnot. I think she may even have a crush on Professor Winner. Well, I won’t tell her about this affair business––it’s bound to spoil her little folly.”

“And guess who I heard from this morning?” Edwina said.  “Just out of the blue.”

“Couldn’t possibly guess,” Nedda said.

“Will Tenney,” Edwina replied. “The police detective.  Remember him?”

“Indeed I do,” Professor Cake smiled. “I’ve been wondering about that.”

“Wondering about what?” Edwina asked.

“You and Detective Tenney,” the old professor said.  “Why you hadn’t been seeing more of one another.  You two seemed quite good together, if I remember right.”

Edwina focused intently on her last bite of cookie.

“Not important,” Nedda said. “Didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

The old professor gazed tenderly at Edwina, her blue eyes pale and watery.

“You’re quite brilliant, you know,” the old professor said. “But don’t forget, my dear, even the god of spring doesn’t know where flowers come from.  We mustn’t overanalyze everything––mustn’t try to fit all of life into a set of tidy equations. Do you take my meaning?”

Edwina had little idea what Professor Cake was getting at.  She thought it would be insensitive to ask, so instead, she took another piece of shortbread, and changed the subject.

Chapter 4

Two miles from campus, Susan Winner paced back and forth in the kitchen of her ranch-style home, talking on the phone. 

“Yes, Chaz
––I dropped the papers off at your office,” she said peevishly.

She listened to the response.

“
What
did you just say?  You’re kidding, right?” she yelled. 

“Do you actually think I’m going to let our children stay over at that absurd bachelor pad of yours?” she shouted into the phone.  “Is that what you think?  That I would allow the kids to be supervised by that frigging
student
girlfriend of yours––Frisky, or Kitten, or whatever the hell her name is?” 

There was silence on the other end.

“Okay, fine. If you don’t give a crap, then I’m hanging up,” Susan said.

“Don’t hang up, Suse,” Film Studies Professor Chaz Winner pleaded.  “Please don’t hang up on me. I just don’t know what to say, that’s all.  I really think you’re being unreasonable
––the kids will be perfectly fine here. Can’t we just give it a trial run this weekend?  For one night––or even for just one afternoon?”

“Over my dead body!” Susan Winner shouted before she hung up on him.

Chapter 5

It hardly seemed right or fair that near the end of Nedda Cake’s well-ordered life, someone as potentially jarring and unpredictable as Honeysuckle would be living under her roof.  But that’s the funny thing about choices: they all have a price, even the most well considered ones.

Nedda Cake lived at the end of Maiden Lane, a heavily wooded, dead end road, where the dense deer population was a danger to drivers in the early morning hours, and vice versa.  Her rambling, three-story house had a welcoming feeling of worn gentility, with its faded Oriental rugs and overstuffed furniture. There were books scattered everywhere you looked, and lots of comfortable places to sit and read them.

    Honeysuckle Blessington had converted the screened porch on the second floor––originally a summer sleeping room before the advent of air-conditioning––into a makeshift greenhouse-cum-laboratory. The old sleeping porch was hardly used anymore. To insulate the porch, Honeysuckle had secured plastic film over the outside walls, laid down a remnant of outdoor carpeting, and moved in a portable heater. Plants and herbs used for making medicinal remedies lined the windowsills facing to the south.  The only piece of furniture was an old, wooden picnic table in the middle of the room, piled with bottles of tinctures and essential oils, mixing bowls in various states of use, and measuring implements for making up herbal infusions and powders. Glass jars and plastic bags filled with dried herbs jostled for space with tins of salves and open reference books.

    Honeysuckle had lobbied Nedda to make the porch off-limits to the housekeeper. Honeysuckle was afraid she would not be able to find anything if the
housekeeper took it upon herself to tidy up the lab.  Nedda saw no harm in her niece’s childish demand, and agreed to it, assuring Honeysuckle the porch would remain inviolate from housekeeper Oona Clifton’s feather duster. Without fear of interlopers, the old sleeping porch was now Honeysuckle’s exclusive domain.  Honeysuckle felt giddy with her newfound freedom. 

    Her current project was an aphrodisiac mixture of her own invention.  The elixir contained kava, damiana, rose petals, cardamom and ginger. She had passed a good many wee hours lying in bed thinking of ways to administer the compound to her special subject. She was fully confident that, once perfected, the elixir would do its magic and get results, and she could finally be happy.   

Things would not be like they had been in England with Honeysuckle’s mother, spying on her all the time. In New Guilford, Honeysuckle would have complete privacy. After the episode with Malcolm Dicks-Pye, once it became clear that he did not feel anything special toward her, Honeysuckle became despondent, and despaired of ever falling in love again.  She threw herself into her homeopathic and herbal pursuits as a way of channeling her sorrow, spending long nights experimenting with herbs and tinctures and potions, sleeping less and less, as she found ways to keep herself awake.

When Malcolm eventually became engaged to Lydia Brimble, poor Lydia quickly fell ill with an unnamed digestive ailment. It was then that Honeysuckle’s mother began rifling through her daughter’s room on a regular basis, snooping through her books and journals, reading her diary. In response to what Honeysuckle perceived as an egregious violation of her privacy, she
abandoned the lab and turned her back on homeopathy for many years.   

Thank goodness the sanctity of her workspace in Nedda’s house would not be likewise compromised. 

Or so Honeysuckle thought.

That’s the thing about narcissists
––they are clueless when it comes to understanding the effect their behavior has on others. And sure enough, Oona Clifton’s resentment about being banished from the old sleeping porch was growing steadily.

In fact, the indignity of her exile only fueled the housekeeper’s considerable dislike of Honeysuckle, for not only did Oona feel invaded by the arrival of Honeysuckle, she considered Professor Cake’s niece strange and ridiculous. A middle-aged woman who couldn’t live on her own? Oona had managed by herself since she was a teenager, working hard and paying her own way. Looking after herself.
Why hadn’t Honeysuckle ever married?
Oona wondered.  Why did she have to be so high-strung, so childishly dependent on Nedda?  It seemed to Oona it should be the other way around––that Honeysuckle should be a source of comfort and strength to Nedda, instead of having to lean on her elderly aunt for emotional stability along with room and board.   

Oona Clifton was deeply devoted to Nedda Cake.  She had been the housekeeper at Cake House, as it was called, since going to work for the Professors Cake in 1974, at the tender age of twenty. Oona was proud of her position at Cake House, and felt it bestowed prestige and honor on her.  Oona’s parents had died in a car accident when she was a girl, so when it came time for her to get married, Nedda and Frank Cake graciously hosted her wedding at their home. They were fond of Oona, and heartily approved of her marriage to the amiable and hardworking, Jeff Clifton,
a New Guilford-born man with his own gardening business.

Gossip is a weakness among the best of us.  And the older and more removed from society one becomes, the greater role gossip plays in helping us feel we are still part of things, still connected
––and not sidelined just for becoming old.  Few things made one feel so alive as hearing a scandalous piece of gossip.  For Nedda Cake, Oona Clifton was a much relied-upon source for local news and goings-on around town. How else would Nedda come to know about such pressing matters as Dan Jackson’s (owner of Dan’s Bridge Market) erectile dysfunction, or that Jed Crackenthorpe, Jr. was not the legitimate son of old Mr. Crackenthorpe (Crackenthorpe’s Department Store), but the secret love child of Hank Billings––the postmaster in New Guilford for the last forty-two years?

In return, Nedda confided to Oona about Honeysuckle’s growing interest in Film Studies Department chair, Chaz Winner.  Confided, too, about her concerns over Honeysuckle’s occasionally misguided sense of things
––how Honeysuckle’s understanding of boundaries seemed vague at best, and caused Nedda to worry that Honeysuckle might do something foolish.  Oona eagerly agreed with Nedda’s concerns about Honeysuckle’s instability, reminding her employer about how Honeysuckle would reach across the dinner table and eat food off Nedda’s plate.  Reminded her, too, of the time Honeysuckle left the single burner hotplate on in the sleeping porch, and might have burned the whole house down, if Nedda hadn’t smelled smoke in the middle of the night, and saved the day.

A
s resentful of Honeysuckle as she was protective of Nedda, it was to be expected that Oona would take it upon herself to sneak into the sleeping porch at the first opportunity, when no one else was at home.  When the time came, Oona was aghast at the shambolic state of the room Honeysuckle had turned into her own, private laboratory. She nearly fainted at the sight of the old lichen-covered picnic table, peeling with paint, crowded and covered with dusty bottles and unwashed dishes dripping with God-knew-what. Glass vials and jars full of pungent-smelling liquids sat open, polluting the place. The leaves on the potted plants were dusty, and books with stained pages lay open, half-buried under plastic bags spilling dried plants and berries all over the floor. Oona sighed, feeling defeated. She took one last, brooding gaze around the cluttered and dirty porch she had always kept spotlessly dusted and vacuumed, and closed the door behind her. 

Oona Clifton was not a spiteful person, but now brimming with resentment, and her professional pride thus wounded, she could not help the vengeful thoughts toward Honeysuckle that flooded her mind.

These dark thoughts doggedly followed her around over the next few days, even though she tried to shut them out of her mind. Gradually Oona’s resistance grew thin, though, and she found herself beginning to welcome them.