Read an Excerpt
One
Alfred
Let us begin with an establishing shot. A three-story Victorian house stands alone on a hill in the White Mountains. The house boasts a wraparound porch, mansard roof, and bay windows. Despite the building's age, her shingles gleam, shutters sparkle. In other words, she is beloved.
We swoop in through an open window on the third floor to reveal a handsome hotel room. A woman with a face of cracked earth leans against a four-poster bed, watching a man in his thirties survey himself in a pedestal floor mirror.
I twist away from the mirror to face my housekeeper.
"How do I look?"
Danny takes her time considering me. "Like Norman Bates," she jokes.
I scowl. "I meant my outfit."
"Not many men can pull off a turtleneck, particularly with a suit," she says. "You look good, Alfred."
"Too much?" I ask, holding the pocket square to my chest.
She scrunches her nose and nods. I toss the silk square back on my desk, then hand her my stack of note cards. "Quiz me."
"You've been over these a hundred times."
"Go on." I turn back to the mirror.
Danny sighs and pulls one from the deck. "What are Samira's children's names?"
"Aditi and Shivam." Got that from Facebook.
"TJ's official title?"
"Freelance security specialist." LinkedIn.
"Zoe's drink of choice?"
"Lagavulin with one ice cube." This detail took some effort. I started by calling Saint Vincent, pretending to be a devoted fan who wanted to send a celebratory bottle the head chef's way. Imagine my surprise when I was told Zoe was on indefinite leave from the restaurant she opened. From there I turned to Instagram and tallied all her photos with alcohol in them. In twelve percent she held a glass of red wine, in thirty-six percent she gripped a pint, and in a solid fifty-two percent a glass of scotch sat by her place setting. In the scotch photos, a bottle of Lagavulin appeared in the background nine times out of ten. I've stocked half a dozen bottles, to be safe.
"You're ready, honey." Danny crosses the room and palms my cheek. "If you knew any more, they'd think you're a stalker."
I look once more in the mirror and finger the soft cuff cloaking my neck. They will comment on my turtleneck-I know they will-but what choice do I have? I haven't bared my neck in years, and I'm not about to start today of all days.
Never mind. No one has even arrived yet, and already I'm falling into old routines, getting defensive. I have much more important things to do today than hide in my room.
"Staff meeting," I say. "Shall we?"
I hold the door for Danny. I was skeptical when she interviewed for the job-she's the fittest senior I've met, but she has to be pushing eighty.Happily, she's proven my doubts unfounded. She's my hardest-working employee and rarely complains, unlike the younger ones. She's also become my trusted lieutenant.
Danny pauses at the threshold and meets my gaze. "I won't let them hurt you," she vows.
The old widow is overprotective of me, which I grumble about but adore. In this case, she need not fret. They'll be dolls in my dollhouse. I am the child at play.
We walk down the third-floor hallway in quiet companionship. I note with pride the vacuum lines on the plush navy carpet. Sometimes I still can't believe I own a hotel. Technically it's an inn, but "hotelier" sounds grander than "innkeeper."
The house has three floors, excluding the attic. On the first floor are the lobby, restaurant, bar, home theater, parlor, and aviary-probably the sole hotel that has one in the country, a real feather in our cap. The second and third floors host six guest rooms each. This weekend's guests will take the rooms on the third floor. Only the best for my former best friends.
In the lobby I wait with my hands clasped behind my back for the rest of the staff. I try to see the space as a guest would, searching for dust bunnies in corners, shoe prints on tiles. I've styled the hotel like a Scottish hunting lodge-low lighting, dark rugs, upholstered furniture, heavy drapes. Moody portraits of women hang on the walls because Hitch surrounded his heroines with them on set. The reception desk to the left of the staircase took me weeks to find: an antique piece with a matching chair that would fit perfectly inside a medieval castle.
And what of the staircase? Devotees will know that harrowing things happen on Hitch's staircases. Ours is T shaped with two landings, one halfway up the central section and another at the top. Mahogany steps jut out from both sides of the landings. These steps lead to the guest rooms.
Suspended from the ceiling above the staircase is our pièce de résistance: one of the original carousel horses from Strangers on a Train. It wasn't cheap, but can you put a price on owning a piece of one of the most iconic scenes in cinema? The horse's mouth is agape, eyes distressed. I swear, on occasion I've seen it sway ever so slightly, giving a ghoulish feeling to an otherwise refined space, which was the effect our set designer was going for.
(It's me. I'm the set designer.)
I greet each staff member as they arrive, wait patiently until all have gathered. "Okay, folks," I say. "We're giving up a high-season weekend of leaf peepers for this free stay. Let's make it worth the lost revenue."
For the next few days I'm hosting my five closest friends from college. We met at Reville, took a film studies class together, then went on to found the campus film club. I haven't seen them in well over a decade, so this is an informal reunion.
I carry on. "I know how hard you've all worked lately. As a thank-you, I have a surprise." I pause. "You can take Saturday and Sunday off."
The twentysomething bartender gasps. A brief commotion ensues. The staff is surprised and confused after the fuss I've made this week. I laugh off their concern, say my friends and I would like some privacy.
"Let's get these folks settled in. I'll take care of the rest."
Danny, of course, will stay. I can't do this without her.
I remind the concierge that we'll have no late reservations or walk-ins. The staff disperses as I move to the round table in the middle of the lobby. I tip my nose into the autumnal floral arrangement, then fan out the half dozen copies of Travel + Leisure. I glance at one of the headlines: 14 Most Unique Stays in New England. With any luck, my hotel will make that list next year.
I glance at the wall mirror and tug on my turtleneck. My temples glisten. I wipe my forehead.
"I'm going to wait for Zoe," I call over my shoulder. The concierge waves in response.
Outside, I breathe easier. Though it's supposed to rain the rest of the weekend, today the sun is shining. New England is at her best in the fall. The mountains surrounding our region are aflame with color-trees painted crimson and gold. From our hilly perch we have a clear view of the valley that houses my small college town. There I spent some of my happiest days-and also the worst of my life.
October is a month crafted for Hitchcock. This is the lone time of year when villains don't have to hide in the shadows, when frights are welcomed, even begged for. The cooling weather sends people indoors, to their sofas, to their television sets-to cherished films. Autumn is the perfect season to commemorate the Master of Suspense. Here we are, celebrating our second fall in business. One year ago today was the hotel's opening. At times I worried we wouldn't make it to year two.
The parking lot has twenty spots over two rows. I squint and notice a small wad of gum stuck to the blacktop. From my pocket I pull a Swiss Army knife and scrape at the gum until it comes free. I toss it into the stone receptacle near the front door, then survey the lot again. Better.
I run through my greeting with Zoe. Do I give her a hug? Shake her hand? Wave? Hitchcock used to introduce himself as "Hitch without the cock," but only geniuses get to be that crude. I check my watch: ten minutes after two. Zoe has never been known for her punctuality.
Just then a Wrangler speeds up my quiet lane. My breath quickens, heart pounds.
What I've done, what I'm doing, is a risk.
The tires screech as the SUV rips around the corner. I swallow, mouth bone-dry. I catch a glimpse of Zoe as she does a sloppy parking job in the second to farthest spot from the building. Still that same blond pixie haircut and enough eyeliner to pass for a raccoon. She climbs out of her Jeep, dressed in all black and combat boots.
People don't change-not much, anyway. The thought calms me. I know these people. I can predict what they'll do.
I breathe onto my palm and sniff. It doesn't smell, but I put two Altoids in my mouth anyway. I watch Zoe hoist a duffel bag out of the back seat of her vehicle, then head toward me. She waves. From this far away I can't tell whether she's smiling. I wave back.
"Welcome to the Hitchcock Hotel," I call.
And . . . action.
Hitchcock was never concerned with
plausibility in his films. That was the
easiest part, he said, so why bother?
Call the police, and the story is over.
He was much more interested in
evoking a mood, in creating suspense.
-Excerpt from Essay #18,
"The Suspension of Disbelief in Film"
Two
Zoe
Zoe can't believe Alfred actually fucking owns the fucking house at the top of the hill.
"You bought the Psycho house," she calls, relieved when her voice doesn't shake.
Alfred waits for her with long arms extended. He's still lanky and pale with a full head of hair-always neatly combed, like a little boy's. (Cringe.) His ears are slightly too big, adding to that boyishness, but his jaw is sharp. He smiles, revealing two rows of perfect teeth, canines gleaming. His dark eyes are set even deeper than Zoe remembered, as if, hiding beneath thick brows, they're being slowly sucked into his skull. The last thing she wants to do is hug him, but she does it anyway.
Alfred steps back to inspect her. "Zoe."
"Alfred."
"You look the same."
"So do you. Still rocking those turtlenecks." Zoe had once overheard students at a house party in college theorizing as to why Alfred wore turtlenecks exclusively. One kid guessed Alfred had been burned with cigarettes by a violent father. Another claimed that when Alfred was a toddler his mother had taken a razor blade to his neck before using it on herself. They were all curious what scars Alfred Smettle was trying to cover. To her knowledge, none of them ever asked him.
Zoe turns her attention to the house. It resembles the Bates family home, which Hitchcock modeled after Hopper's House by the Railroad painting. (More useless trivia she's never forgotten. Thanks, Alfred.) The film club had had a lot of fun back in the day, dreaming up rumors about the house's occupants while munching on French fries at Eggy's. Alfred would keep the storytelling going for hours if the others didn't shut him up.
"Let me take your bag," he says. His voice is soft and airy, in a way Zoe once thought comforting but now finds eerie.
She hands it to him, then peeks over her shoulder. Is she the first one here?
Alfred leads her up the balustraded front stairway, which is lined on both sides with pumpkins and baskets of mums. Iron lanterns hold ivory candles, lit though it's the middle of the day. Two black rocking chairs stand at the ready under the portico. Alfred pauses at the front door. "Do you feel like poor, doomed Arbogast?" He raises an eyebrow. "Waiting for one of the Bateses to answer the door?"
He's talking about the cop in the movie, Zoe realizes. "I hope that's where the similarities end," she says.
Alfred pushes open the door and gestures for her to lead the way. Zoe hesitates for a moment before stepping through the entrance. The lighting is dim after being in broad daylight. She has to squint to make out the receptionist sitting behind the desk at the far end of the lobby. She waits for her eyes to adjust.
"Whoa," she says under her breath when they do. "This is awesome." She has to admit that Alfred always had good taste-in material things, anyway-but she half expected (hoped?) the hotel would be a catastrophe. He was never ambitious in college, never showed passion for anything but old movies. He could be resourceful when he set his mind to something, though. Zoe grimaces. She feels Alfred standing behind her. Where did he get the cash to buy and renovate this place? According to Samira, he'd been working at La Quinta Inn for most of the time since school, and Zoe knows he didn't grow up with money.
A tall old woman with abnormally straight posture awaits them. Alfred gives her Zoe's bag.
"This is my housekeeper, Danny," he says.
"Zoe. Nice to meet you." Zoe sticks out her hand, but the woman makes no move to shake it. She holds Zoe's duffel with both hands instead.
The elderly woman's face is gaunt, with piercing eyes and a nose long enough to serve as a bird's perch. Her silver hair is pulled back into a tidy bun, not a strand out of place. She wears a shapeless black dress, tea length, with a white Peter Pan collar, and white cuffs on the short sleeves. On her feet are sensible Mary Jane slip-ons. Zoe wonders whether this uniform was her idea or Alfred's. Danny bows her head, then walks away. Weirdo.
Alfred gestures to the room on their left. "Want to have a look around?"
The floorboards creak under Zoe's feet. She follows Alfred.
"This is the parlor," he says.
She takes it in-the grand piano, the homey fire, the cozy scents of leather and smoke. Gathered around the hearth are two velvet armchairs and a sofa. There are vases on pedestals; from them grand arrangements of dried flowers fan out like peacocks' tails. An antique wooden chest serves as a coffee table. On the chest is a British-looking arrangement-a three-tiered china tray with sandwiches, scones, and cakes, plus a silver pot of tea and several delicate teacups. A shout-out to Alfred's revered director, no doubt. He is waiting for Zoe's reaction. She will not give him the satisfaction of impressing her twice.
