The Hiltons: The True Story of an American Dynasty

by Taraborrelli, J. Randy

  Olive nodded patiently.

  “And maybe Dad could get me a small car so I don’t have to use one of Mother’s,” Francesca said. “And maybe he could give me an allowance of a thousand dollars a month until I can get on my feet?” she asked. She waited for a response, but one was not forthcoming. Olive knew this terrain well. She must have also known how these requests would be taken by Conrad. “Okay, I will see what I can do, then,” she said.

  “Would you, please?” Francesca asked urgently. “It’s not a lot to ask, is it?”

  Olive didn’t want to commit to anything, even to a vague opinion about the requests. She just nodded and tried to appear as understanding as possible.

  “Just in Case”

  On Sunday night, September 19, 1971, Conrad Hilton returned to the United States. The next morning, Francesca called to see how he was doing, how his trip had been, and whether or not he had talked to Olive Wakeman regarding the requests she’d made a couple weeks earlier. He said he hadn’t had the opportunity to talk to Olive, but that he would do so later that day. He would get back to her, he promised. He still felt very badly about the altercation with Francesca and hadn’t come to any sort of peace around it. He simply wished it hadn’t happened.

  That afternoon, when Conrad finally sat down with Olive, she told him about Francesca’s requests. “She wants us to subsidize an apartment for her,” Olive said, specifically using the word “us,” perhaps thinking it might take some of the edge off the request.

  He didn’t say anything. Olive waited a beat. “And she wants us to buy her a small automobile,” she added. She waited.

  Nothing.

  “And she would like a monthly stipend of a thousand dollars.” She waited.

  Nothing.

  “Call Bentley,” Conrad finally said. He was referring to his longtime attorney, G. Bentley Ryan, “and see if he can get over here, will you, please, Olive?” Olive rose from her chair and went into the other room to do as she was told.

  Less than an hour later, Bentley Ryan appeared at Casa Encantada. The three adjourned to the study, Conrad behind his desk, his assistant and attorney sitting on the other side of it. “I’m afraid things have gotten a little out of hand with Francie,” Conrad said, this according to Olive’s later testimony. “It is not her fault, though. None of this is her fault,” he conceded. He then filled Bentley Ryan in on what had happened with Francesca prior to his European business trip. Ryan seemed quite surprised by the story. He said that the unpleasant scene was probably “inevitable,” but still, it made him sad.

  “Well, what do we do, now?” Bentley asked.

  “Hell if I know,” Conrad said.

  “We could just give Francie what she wants,” Olive suggested. Then, advocating for her like never before, Olive pointed out that Francesca didn’t “deserve” the trouble she now faced. She offered to go with her to find an apartment in order to make sure it was a reasonable rent, and she would also make certain that any automobile purchased was affordable. She could take care of all of it, she said. Just leave it to her.

  “No, Olive,” Conrad decided, “though it’s nice of you to offer. Instead,” he added, “would you take a letter?” Of course, she had her writing pad with her. Conrad then dictated a lengthy letter to Francesca.

  In Conrad’s missive to Francesca, dated September 20, 1971, he began by noting that despite the work that had piled up on his desk in his absence, he had still taken the time to talk to Olive about her. However, before addressing Francesca’s requests, he wanted her to know that the conversation he’d had with her before his trip had troubled him deeply. In thinking about it while he was gone, he realized that it was the first time the two had had any sort of “highly unpleasant” exchange. It had been nagging at him, he said. He then got to the point of his letter.

  Conrad was aware, he said, that Francesca had asked him to subsidize an apartment and an automobile for her in order that she might be able to obtain some freedom from Zsa Zsa. Also, he understood that she had requested a stipend of a thousand dollars a month. But after thinking about it, he said, he had decided not to grant her requests. He explained that “I am neither morally and certainly not legally obligated to you for any reason, whatsoever.” While he was quite aware, he said, that his decision might “destroy our friendship,” he sincerely hoped that this would not be the case. He had enjoyed her company over the years, he said, and often reflected on their times together, such as a trip they had once taken to New York during which Francesca had revealed herself as being particularly smart and insightful. Still, his mind was made up, and he wasn’t going to justify his position to her. As was well-known by all, she had always been Zsa Zsa’s responsibility, and he didn’t want that to change. He believed—though he admitted that he couldn’t be absolutely sure—that Zsa Zsa had the finances to support Francesca, and that she wished to continue to do just that.

  In closing, Conrad noted that if Francesca could accept his decision and never again demand money from him, he would be more than happy to continue a relationship with her such as the one they had enjoyed prior to their recent difficult meeting. He added that he had only the best of wishes for her and no anger toward her. “On the contrary, I send you my love,” he wrote, “which I hope will be reciprocated.” He signed it, “Daddy.”

  After Conrad finished dictating the letter, there was only silence. It was as if Olive and Bentley didn’t know what to say about it. Finally, Bentley spoke up. “You sure about this, Connie?” he said.

  “Yes,” Conrad said. “I’m sure.” Then, thinking ahead should Francesca one day pursue the matter, Conrad decided to dictate another letter to Olive, this one addressed to her and to Bentley. “And I’m afraid this particular letter will test the bounds of your discretion,” he told them before beginning his second dictation.

  In Conrad’s second correspondence, this one to Olive and Bentley—also dated September 20, 1971—he noted that he had just dictated a letter to Francesca with their assistance. He said that nothing in that first letter should alter any aspect of his will where Francesca was concerned. He added that Olive and Bentley well knew, since they had both been present in his life at the time, that “I am not and could not be the father of Francesca.” He further explained that the only reason he had ever allowed Francesca and Zsa Zsa to use the Hilton name was because he didn’t want Francesca to grow up feeling that she was an illegitimate child. Moreover, in an effort to make her feel loved, he had always addressed her as “daughter.” But in fact, he maintained, he was not her biological father, and also had never adopted her. Therefore, if the issue was ever raised in the future, he wished to have Olive and Bentley testify to his feelings about the paternity of Francesca, and as to why he had made the decisions he’d made regarding her, going all the way back to her birth. As far as he could remember, he concluded, Francesca was born “almost a year and a half after I separated from Zsazsa and after which I had no sexual relations with my former wife.” He signed it, “Conrad N. Hilton.”

  After the second letter was dictated, Olive sat in her chair and read it over repeatedly as if trying to reconcile it. With so many closely held secrets now being memorialized on paper forever, it must have been hard for her to take it all in. “Why don’t you go into the other room, type that up, and then bring it back to us,” Conrad suggested, pulling Olive out of her thoughts. Though personally upset about what had happened with Francesca, Conrad decided to handle it as he would a business matter, obviously fearing that, one day, it might become just that.

  When Olive left the study, Conrad and Bentley just sat staring at each other, neither saying a word. It was as if there was nothing left to say. A few moments later, Olive returned with the letter, now typed neatly on Hilton Hotels Corporation stationery. She handed it to Conrad for his final review. He read it carefully. Then he read it again. He signed it. He folded it. He opened his top desk drawer and took out an envelope. He put the letter in the envelope, sealed it, and handed it t
o G. Bentley Ryan. “Hold on to this,” he told the lawyer. “Just in case.”

  “Just in case of what?” Ryan asked.

  “Just in case,” Conrad repeated. He looked hard into his attorney’s eyes as if to convey that no further explanation was needed.

  The Challenge

  It was February 1973. More than a year had passed since Conrad Hilton’s letter to Francesca Hilton and the one he then dictated to his assistant and lawyer for safekeeping, “just in case.” While Francesca’s reaction to his missive is not known, Zsa Zsa made her position clear about it. She was upset that things had gotten so out of hand. Who knew what had possessed Conrad that night? she told Francesca. There was no telling what was going through his head. Maybe he was just tired. Maybe his age was showing, she suggested. Or maybe he had been pushed too hard and just misspoke. At a loss, she finally offered, “People are complicated, Francie. Your father loves you. That’s all I know. Now, for the sake of our family, please, you must let this go.”

  Summoning all her resolve, Francesca did as her mother suggested: She went on with her life and did whatever she could to keep the peace with Conrad. “Our relationship was exactly as it had been before our heated discussion,” Francesca recalled. “He never again said or did anything which caused me to believe he doubted that he was my father. He continued to refer to himself as ‘Daddy,’ and continued to treat me as his daughter.”

  Now it was the evening of February 21, 1973. Conrad Hilton, eighty-five, was standing in the library of Carole Wells Doheny’s home in Brentwood, California. He had come to offer his condolences over the tragic suicide death of her husband, Larry.

  It had happened a week earlier. Carole had been visiting with Barron and Marilyn Hilton on Valentine’s Day when she became alarmed that she could not reach her husband by telephone. Because he had suffered three heart attacks in the last year, she was frantic with worry. She raced to their home, where she found him dead. He had taken a purposeful overdose of prescription medications.

  Now, barely a week later, a still shaken Carole Wells Doheny was surprised to find Conrad Hilton at her door, asking to speak to her. She hadn’t seen much of him in recent years. “Oh, my dear Connie, you look like you could use a drink,” she said. “No, thank you,” he told her. “I’m fine, my dear.”

  Carole, with her two young sons in tow—Sean, three, and Ryan, one—studied Conrad with great apprehension as he moved uncertainly across the floor to a nearby chair and sat down. “So what do you think about this Watergate scandal?” he asked Carole. He was of course referring to the break-in at the Democratic National Committee headquarters at the Watergate office complex in Washington six months earlier, and President Richard Nixon’s subsequent attempt to conceal his involvement. “Do you think Nixon is in trouble?” he asked. Carole said she didn’t know, but it was certainly possible. Conrad then said that he had friends in Washington who had told him that more would be revealed in the coming months, and he was afraid that it wasn’t going to be good for the president. In just five months’ time, recordings would be discovered in the White House that would ultimately implicate Nixon in the cover-up.

  Finally, after a few more minutes of small talk, Conrad got to the point of his visit. “I just wanted you to know how much it devastates me that Larry has left you with these two lovely boys,” he said as he watched her sons play in front of the fireplace. He said that he could never have done it, he could never leave his sons without their father. “Imagine the great despair Larry must have felt to have done such a thing,” he observed.

  With the loss of Nicky still weighing so heavily and the problems caused by Francesca still ongoing, the subject of fathers and their children was clearly on Conrad’s mind. He allowed that it was terrible for a child to lose a parent, but for a parent to lose a child was “simply unbearable.” With that comment, Conrad’s eyes welled with tears. Obviously, the passing of the years had not diminished his grief in the least. He shook his head in despair. “I wish I could go back,” he said. “I would do things very differently.”

  Carole couldn’t help herself; she simply had to ask the question: “What would you do differently, Connie?” she wondered.

  “Of all my sons, Nicky always shone the brightest,” Conrad began with a nostalgic smile. Bathed in the soft light emanating from the fireplace, he seemed more fragile to Carole than ever before. He said that Barron and Eric were both like him, always with their noses to the grindstone. He was especially proud of Eric at this time, he noted, because immediately after Nicky’s death, Eric became instrumental in the creation of the Conrad N. Hilton College of Hotel and Restaurant Management (still supported today by the Conrad N. Hilton Foundation). Ground had already been broken for the Hilton University of Houston hotel. Eric had proven himself as a Hilton, Conrad said. And of course, Barron was his father’s son in every way. “But Nicky,” he concluded, “for all his faults, he really knew how to live.”

  Conrad then talked about Nicky’s untamed, controversial youth, his turbulent marriage to Elizabeth Taylor, and his reputation with the ladies. He shared with Carole many stories and secrets about Nicky that she promised never to reveal to a single soul—and she never has. He also talked about his son’s successful second marriage to Trish and how throughout it all—the bad years and the good—he had remained conflicted about Nicky’s work ethic. “Zsa Zsa always felt I was in competition with Nicky,” he continued. “That wasn’t true, though,” he concluded. “How could I ever compete with Nicky? He had it all over me, didn’t he?”

  Carole nodded. Though Conrad never really answered the question of what he would have done differently, she understood his torment. “I guess the great irony is that you wanted his life,” she said, “and all he ever wanted was your approval, Connie. That is just so sad.” She instantly regretted stating the obvious, especially when Conrad bowed his head and, much to her astonishment, began to shed tears. So moved by Conrad’s unabashed display of heartache was Carole’s son Ryan that the tot took several jerky steps toward the old man and stared up at him. Then, just as he was about to tumble backward onto his bottom, he wrapped his little arms around the hotelier’s leg to steady himself. “Well, my goodness! Will you just look at that?” Conrad exclaimed. It was a powerful moment, compelling and appropriate in its symbolism. Regarding with affection the youngster at his knee, Conrad ran his fingers through the boy’s soft hair several times. “Maybe I should have spent more time with Nicky when he was this lad’s age,” he said. He said that it was easy to lose sight of family when “you’re all in business together. I have always understood the fundamentals of power,” he said, “but the fundamentals of family, those are…” His voice trailed off.

  Carole rose and walked over to Conrad. Standing behind him, she gently put her hands on his shoulders. She observed that, as parents, they had always done the best they could for their children. She knew in her heart of hearts that her husband loved her and his boys, and it was that knowledge that sustained her, she said, patting Conrad’s shoulders. “Nicky loved you, too, Connie,” she continued. “All of your children do. You must know that.”

  “Oh, yes, I do,” Conrad said. He then revealed to Carole that he’d had a brief conversation with Nicky the night before his death during which the two proclaimed their affection for one another. He said it was strange, as if Nicky knew he was not long for this world. “He told me he loved me and I told him I loved him, too,” Conrad recalled. He said that he then hung up the phone while wondering to himself how many years it had been since they’d said that to each other—and he didn’t know the answer to that question.

  “Then you must remember that last conversation,” Carole told Conrad, “because it will help you get through the years ahead.” Still standing behind him, she pulled Conrad in closer. “Your friends and family will help you, Connie,” she told him. “We are all here for you.”

  Joined in their mutual grief, Carole and Conrad spent the next couple of hours gazing absently at t
he flames while remembering their lost loved ones and talking about the importance of family. From talking to him that night, she recognized that one thing about Conrad Hilton had not changed: He was still a man of great faith who believed that his sins were forgiven as swiftly as they were acknowledged and then confessed to his God. He also believed that, by the grace of his Lord, it—all of it—would somehow be made better. In other words, it was in God’s hands now. That said, she also knew that he would mourn the death of his son until the day that he too would be gone from this world. There was nothing she could do about that, either. That would be Conrad Hilton’s cross to bear.

  PART ELEVEN

  Frances

  At Long Last Love

  Are you ready?” Conrad Hilton asked the attractive woman at his side. The two were in the backseat of his sleek black 1976 Cadillac Fleetwood.

  “I am,” she replied enthusiastically.

  “Okay, here goes.” He grinned. “Hail Mary, full of grace,” he started, now bowing his head. “The Lord is with thee.”

  “Blessed art though amongst women,” she continued, her head also lowered, “and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus.”

  It was a Sunday morning in November 1977 and life had taken an unexpected turn for Conrad. Married to two enormously different types of women and divorced for many years, Conrad was about to embark on a new life’s journey he dared not hope for at this late stage of the game—real romance. About to turn eighty-eight in December, on this day Conrad found himself cozying up to an elegantly mature and still pretty woman who was more than twenty-five years his junior, Mary Frances Kelly, age sixty-one. The two were being driven to a Catholic church in Beverly Hills by her brother, William P. Kelly, who was visiting from Illinois and had volunteered to take them to mass. The couple, who had been dating for more than a year, customarily enjoyed playing out a little ritual on their way to church; both devout Catholics, they would recite a prayer familiar to both of them as a way of beginning their day of worship.