Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine. Vol. 49, No. 1 & 2, January/February 2004

“You’d be amazed,” he said. “The audience will always go nuts when something as simple, as basic, as a dress Milton Berle wore gets rolled out. Sunset Beaudry’s ten-gallon hat. A sword Kirk Douglas wielded in Spartacus, or Chuck Heston in Ben Hur. Judy’s ruby red slippers. But most of all, it’s the old footage. A reel of a dozen highlight scenes from the best of the movies. Maybe some home movie footage, full of backstage glimpses the fans only knew from magazines and newspapers, the tabloids. When it’s over, everybody leaves the theater glowing, thinking the show was worth twice the ticket price.”

She signaled understanding and began counting off on her fingers what she knew to exist, in the basement and the attic, but mostly in the rental storage compound about a mile away. All the while, her wondrous eyes fixed on a corner of the ceiling, as if that was where she had filed the inventory on her sister’s possessions.

They turned back on Mickey when she was through, smiling triumphantly, complimenting herself on her memory, wondering, “Will that be enough for your program? I think so, don’t you?”

He picked this as a good time to drop the bomb on her. “How about Diana?” he said. “Having Diana step out at some perfectly timed moment from behind the curtain would make this a definite smash at the box office, keep both of you debt free for years to come.”

Alice ceased looking like she’d just finished first in the swimsuit competition. She bolted upright and dug into him with a stare as sharp as a stiletto, then closed her eyes, as if there were something working behind them that she did not want Mickey to see, and blindly grabbed after a fresh cigarette.

She wandered the room for a few moments, then stepped back until she hovered over him, legs spread wide, one arm across her midsection, the hand supporting the elbow of her cigarette hand. The smoke filtering like dragon’s breath from the corners of her mouth.

“What exactly was that supposed to mean, Mickey? Is there something you think you know that you haven’t been sharing with me?” Her words popping like acorns in a fireplace, challenging, but also trying not to make her sound threatened by whatever his answers might be.

“I’m sharing with you now, Alice.”

“You make it sound like you think my sister’s still alive.”

“Is she?”

Alice made an unintelligible noise of disbelief.

“Next, Mickey, you’ll be accusing me of being Diana.”

“Are you?”

He flicked the corners of his mouth and held her eyes for study. They were as flat as the world before Columbus. She took another drag and papered him with the bluish stream, spun around and moved quickly to the fireplace.

The mantel was decorated with photos of Diana Demarest at various stages of her career, the frames growing more elaborate and ornate with the success visible in her poses and costuming. Serving as bookends were the Oscar she’d won for Paris Holiday, the Emmy for her indelible Laura in Tennessee Williams’s

The Glass Menagerie, opposite Jack Lemmon’s Gentleman Caller.

The centerpiece, above Diana’s portrait by Warhol, was a blue crystal vase.

Alice made a sweeping gesture of introduction and said, “You’re looking for Diana, here she is,” then addressing the vase, “Sis, I believe Mickey would like a word with you.”

She froze her stare on him and, as the room temperature dropped to a level only penguins could love, said, “Go for it, Mickey.”

Mickey finished the cookie he was munching, washed it down with a coffee mouth rinse, unwound from the couch, and headed to the mantel.

Alice stepped aside.

He leaned over and said quietly, as if he were dealing confidentially with the crystal vase, “Let me explain, Diana, assuming you don’t mind if Alice tunes in on us.” He gave the vase a minute to answer before advising, “Your sis apparently doesn’t mind, Al.”

It took only two or three minutes to share the story with Diana, about the man who’d sold the autograph book to Pop, how Pop had reacted upon discovering the Diana Demarest signature, and his subsequent realization about the double Ds in relation to the time frame.

“What got me to New York and your lawyer, Diana, the idea that you might still be alive. But it’s okay, you like this — as nice a vase as any gown Edith Head ever put you in. You’re sure to get heavy applause from all your fans when Sis here escorts you onto the stage.”

Mickey glanced over his shoulder at Alice.

“We get the personal touch from you, Al. The family thing never fails to work its magic. We script it right, you’ll have them drowning in tears when you explain how Diana, your loving sister—”

Alice signaled Mickey to stop with a wild arm motion. She insisted, “That person, the man who took the autograph book to your father’s shop. Can you describe him to me?”

He shared what he knew, not a lot, but enough to drain the color from her face, turn it pasty white, and inflate her eyes with sudden fear, like some startled Bambi confronting the headlights of an oncoming truck.