An Inconvenient Woman

by Dominick Dunne

  “No one admitted here,” said a policeman, holding up his hands, as Camilla Ebury and Philip Quennell walked up to the entrance of the house.

  “I am Mr. Paradiso’s niece,” said Camilla.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, I can’t let you in. Those are my orders,” said the policeman.

  “This is Camilla Ebury, officer,” said Philip Quennell. “Mrs. Ebury is Hector Paradiso’s only living relative.”

  “I’ll go inside and ask, Mrs. Berry, but not at the moment,” said the officer. “I’m really sorry for your trouble, but I’m just doing what I was told. The coroner’s in there now.”

  “If you could just tell them inside that I’m here,” said Camilla. “It’s Ebury, not Berry. E-B-U-R-Y. My mother was Mr. Paradiso’s sister. Mr. Jules Mendelson called me with the news.”

  Always, whenever it was mentioned, in any circumstance, the name of Jules Mendelson seemed to bring about a change in attitude. As the officer headed toward the front door, it opened, and two policemen came out with a young man between them, his hands in handcuffs behind his back. The television van had parked and unloaded, and the cameraman ran forward to get a picture of the trio. The handcuffed person in the middle shouted out, “Hey, man, don’t photograph me,” and bent his head down and turned it away from the camera. As he looked up from his bent-over position, his eyes locked with Camilla’s.

  “I didn’t do this, Miss Camilla! I swear to God! I was asleep in my room in the pool house. Your uncle buzzed me on the intercom and said there was trouble, and by the time I got dressed he was dead, and whoever did it was gone. I swear to God, Miss Camilla.”

  “Oh, Raymundo,” said Camilla, staring at him.

  The policemen moved him on toward the police car. One opened the door, and the other pushed Raymundo into the car.

  “Who’s Raymundo?” asked Philip.

  “He’s my uncle’s houseboy, has been for a couple of years,” said Camilla.

  From the front door, the policeman called out, “You can come in now, Mrs. Ebury, and your friend.”

  Walking toward the door, aware that they were being photographed by the cameraman, Camilla reached into her pocketbook and took out a pair of dark glasses and put them on.

  “There was a blond man, looked like an off-duty marine, who ran out of the house,” yelled a voice from behind some trees.

  “Who’s that?” asked Philip.

  “The crazy lady next door,” said Camilla. “She made Hector’s life hell, spying on him all the time, imagining all these insane things.”

  They walked inside the house. There was a small central hallway. To the left was the dining room. To the right was the living room, and beyond that the library. The house was filled with police and medical people.

  “This is the niece, Captain,” said the police officer.

  Philip took hold of Camilla’s arm and walked her forward.

  “Captain Mariano, Mrs. Ebury,” said the captain, introducing himself.

  Camilla nodded. “Mr. Quennell,” she said, introducing Philip and looking around at the same time. The living room was in shambles. A shot had been fired into the mirror over the fireplace, and the glass top of the coffee table had also been shattered by a shot. There was blood on the blue upholstery of a sofa, and a trail of blood leading into the library. Camilla gasped when she saw the bare legs of her uncle’s bare body in the room beyond.

  “Will you be able to identify the body, Mrs. Ebury?” asked Captain Mariano.

  She had turned pale. She looked as if she was going to faint. She looked at Philip.

  “Didn’t Mr. Mendelson identify him?” asked Philip.

  “Mr. Mendelson didn’t go in that room,” answered Mariano.

  “May I identify the body, Captain?” asked Philip.

  “How well did you know the deceased?”

  “Not at all well. Hardly at all, in fact, but we were at the same party last night, and I know what he looks like,” said Philip.

  “That all right with you, Mrs. Ebury?” asked the captain.

  Camilla nodded. Philip walked into the library. Lying facedown on the floor, in a pool of blood, was Hector Paradiso, nude and dead. There appeared to be several shots in his torso, and red marks on the cheek that was visible to Philip, as well as on both his buttocks.

  Philip nodded. “That’s Hector Paradiso,” he said. He thought of Hector last night, dancing so elaborately, his white teeth flashing in his tanned face. Too tanned, he remembered thinking at the time. Now the too-tanned face looked ghostly and white beneath the red welts on it.

  “How many times was he shot?” asked Philip.

  “There appear to be five shots fired in all,” said the captain.

  “What are those red welts on his backside?” he asked.

  “The victim seems to have been slapped across the face and buttocks by his black patent leather dancing pumps,” said the captain.

  Philip nodded. From the other room he heard Camilla’s voice. “I am stunned, simply stunned, that Raymundo could do such a thing,” she said. “My uncle has been responsible for bringing Raymundo’s family up here from Mexico and getting them green cards so they could work legally and sending them to schools where they could learn English.”

  “We’re not at all sure that Raymundo is responsible, Mrs. Ebury,” said a police officer.

  “I saw him myself in handcuffs outside this house being put into a police car,” she said.

  “I’m not a bit convinced about Raymundo,” said the captain. “Do you happen to know where your uncle was last night, Mrs. Ebury?”

  “Yes, he was at Jules Mendelson’s house,” replied Camilla.

  “I know that. We’ve talked to Mr. Mendelson. I meant, after Mr. Mendelson’s.”

  Camilla looked at the police captain and understood what he meant. “No. I would have no way of knowing that.”

  Philip walked back into the room. “Where is Mr. Mendelson?” he asked.

  “He left,” said Captain Mariano.

  “How long ago?”

  “He only stayed a few minutes.”

  “Perhaps you should call him at home,” said Philip to Camilla.

  “Yes,” she answered.

  “I don’t think he went home,” said the captain. “I heard him telephone Sandy Pond and ask to see him immediately.”

  Camilla nodded.

  “Who’s Sandy Pond?” asked Philip.

  “The publisher of the Tribunal,” answered Camilla.

  “Comin’ through,” called out a voice from the library.

  “Step over here, will you, Mrs. Ebury, Mr. Quennell,” said the captain.

  Two stretcher-bearers made their way through the living room carrying the last remains of Hector Paradiso zipped into a black rubber body bag. In the silence that followed, the crying of a small animal could be heard.

  “What’s that?” asked Captain Mariano.

  “What?” answered one of the policemen.

  “Like crying?”

  “Oh, my God,” said Camilla. “Astrid.”

  “Who’s Astrid?” asked Philip.

  “Hector’s dog,” said Camilla. She called the dog several times. “Astrid. Astrid.”

  The sounds of crying became louder as Camilla went into the library. She knelt down on the floor and peered under the sofa. “Astrid, come out, you sweet thing,” she said in a gentle voice. She reached under the sofa and pulled the small West Highland terrier out. The dog appeared terrified, and Camilla clutched it in her arms, kissed its head, and petted it. “Rose gave Hector this dog,” she said to Philip. “I’m going to bring it back to Rose.”

  “That little dog knows who killed Hector Paradiso,” said Philip.

  “Too bad Astrid can’t talk,” said Captain Mariano.

  “I don’t give a shit if Mr. Einsdorf left strict orders he did not want to be disturbed until noon or not,” yelled Joel Zircon into the telephone. “Wake him up!”

  Several minutes later Manning Einsdorf, enraged th
at his sleep had been disturbed, came to the telephone. “This is outrageous, Joel. I need my rest. I didn’t close the club last night until four.”

  “Have you heard about Hector Paradiso, Manning?” asked Joel.

  “Oh, my God. AIDS?”

  “No, Manning. Shot five times.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Dead?”

  “Of course dead.”

  “Oh, my God. You don’t think that Lonny … oh, my God. Is it on the news?”

  “No, not a word so far.”

  “How’d you hear?”

  “A sometime trick of mine was working on the ambulance. He called me.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “You said ‘oh, my God’ three times now, Manning. You better get your ass in gear and get over to the place and destroy any records or phone numbers you have of hustlers and Johns or you’re going to be in deep shit.”

  “That fucking Lonny,” said Manning Einsdorf.

  “What was that lousy singer’s name with the buckteeth?”

  “Marvene McQueen.”

  “Tell Marvene she didn’t see Hector Paradiso in your place last night. And Zane too.”

  “Don’t worry about Zane,” said Manning.

  Flo’s Tape #4

  “Jules used to say that if you could visualize yourself as something, you could become it. I can’t tell you how much that meant to me when he said it. You see, I always thought I would be famous, only I never could visualize what I would be famous at. He knew, he always knew, he told me, that he would become an important person, and he certainly did.

  “When I visualized myself as famous, it wasn’t this kind of fame.”

  5

  Later that day, Philip Quennell returned to the Chateau Marmont, an apartment hotel on that part of Sunset Boulevard known as the Strip that was frequented by the movie and art crowd. Casper Stieglitz’s secretary, Bettye, had booked him a room, or, as Bettye described it, a junior suite. A junior suite, Philip discovered, was a bedroom and sitting room in one.

  “Perfect for your writing,” Bettye had told Philip when she called him in New York to confirm his reservation. “All the writers who come out from New York stay there.” Philip, who was not a chatterer on the telephone, even with a full-time chatterer like Bettye, said the arrangement sounded fine, but Bettye sensed a dissatisfaction, where there was none, and added, as a further enhancement of the charms of his future lodging, “It’s the place where John Belushi OD’d.”

  “Oh, right,” Philip had added.

  “But that was in one of the bungalows. Not the room where you will be.”

  “Right,” said Philip.

  The lost luggage had been returned by the airline to the hotel, and Philip showered again and changed the clothes he had worn since the morning before when he boarded the plane in New York, and had then worn to the Mendelsons’ party the night before, and on the mission that morning to Humming Bird Way to identify the body of Hector Paradiso, and then back to Clouds at the top of the mountain to deliver Camilla Ebury into the comforting hands of Pauline Mendelson.

  That time no butler or maid opened the door to receive them. Pauline herself was standing in the open door waiting for them when Philip drove his rented car into the courtyard. She walked to Camilla’s side of the car and opened the door. When Camilla got out, the two women embraced.

  “So awful,” said Pauline.

  “Poor Hector,” answered Camilla. “What a good friend you were to Hector, Pauline. He adored you.”

  “And I him. I’m livid with myself that I didn’t let him stay on last night after everyone left. He wanted to talk over the party, and I said no.”

  “Oh, Pauline, it’s not your fault,” said Camilla. “Anyway, I heard that Kippie was back, and of course you wanted to be with him.”

  Pauline smiled distantly in acknowledgment of the mention of her son’s name, but did not reply.

  Camilla continued. “How is he?”

  “Oh, coming along,” said Pauline. In the short silence that followed, the sound of a tennis ball being hit with great force against a backboard issued from an unseen court somewhere behind the house. Pauline was wearing a cashmere sweater over her shoulders, and she pulled it together in front of her as if she were chilly, although it was not cold. Instinctively, both Camilla and Philip realized that the player was probably Kippie. Turning, Pauline greeted Philip warmly. If she was surprised to see him in the company of Camilla, wearing the same clothes he had been wearing the night before, she gave no such indication.

  “I don’t see Jules’s car,” said Camilla.

  “He went out very early this morning, as soon as he got the call, and he’s not back yet,” said Pauline.

  “Who called him?” asked Camilla.

  “I don’t know. The police, I suppose.”

  Camilla and Philip looked at each other.

  “Is Rose still here?” asked Camilla.

  “Heavens, yes. On her second Bloody Mary already and her fortieth cigarette. I’m always afraid she’s going to burn down my house,” replied Pauline. She was back to being herself again, charming, and in charge.

  “How’s she taking the news?”

  “In absolute despair, calling everyone. Blaming herself for everything. If only they’d been speaking, this never would have happened, that kind of talk.”

  “Like most lifelong friends, they were always not speaking,” said Camilla, and both she and Pauline laughed.

  From within the car, the dog started to whine.

  “What in the world is that?” asked Pauline.

  “Oh, my God, I forgot,” said Camilla. “It’s Astrid. We brought Astrid. I couldn’t leave her in that house. Poor little thing, she was hiding under the sofa in the library. I thought Rose might want her back, as she gave her to Hector in the first place.”

  “That will be just what she needs,” said Pauline. “She’s planning the funeral already. High Mass at Good Shepherd in Beverly Hills. She wants Archbishop Cooning to officiate, can you imagine, and she’s going to give a big lunch after the funeral at the Los Angeles Country Club. Are you going to mind that she’s taken over completely?”

  “Hell, no,” said Camilla. “Rose is at her best when she’s planning a party, and that’s exactly what she’ll turn this into.”

  “Now, come in, the two of you,” said Pauline.

  Philip, who had been watching Camilla and Pauline, said, “The papers are going to have a field day with this story. I’m surprised they’re not buzzing your bell down at the gates now.”

  “Oh, no, I shouldn’t think so,” said Pauline.

  “I mean, it has all the elements, doesn’t it? Land Grant family. Prominent social figure. Millionaire, or at least one presumes. Uncle of Camilla Ebury. Close personal friend of Mrs. Jules Mendelson. It all sounds very front page to me.”

  “Oh, no. I shouldn’t think it would be played up,” repeated Pauline, shaking her head.

  “But why not?” asked Philip.

  “That’s what Jules said when he called. He was at Sandy Pond’s office at the Tribunal.”

  “But, Pauline, they took Raymundo away in handcuffs,” said Camilla. “I saw him with my own eyes.”

  “They’ve let him go by now. A mix-up, apparently. Anyway, come in. Rose will be having an anxiety attack.”

  Philip, a newcomer and an outsider in the group, declined. Twenty-four hours earlier he had not known any of these people, and now he felt awkward among them in such personal moments. “I won’t come in, Pauline. I’d better get back to the hotel and check on my luggage and call Casper Stieglitz to tell him I’ve arrived.”

  Pauline looked at him and smiled. “Happy birthday,” she said.

  Philip smiled back, touched that she had remembered.

  “I didn’t know it was your birthday, Philip,” said Camilla.

  “So much has happened since last night, I’d forgotten it myself,” he said.

  “How ol
d are you?” she asked.

  “Thirty,” he answered.

  “I’m thirty-two,” she said.

  “I like older women.”

  Camilla laughed. “I can’t thank you enough for seating me next to this wonderful man last night, Pauline,” she said. “I don’t know what I’d have done without him.”

  Camilla and Philip looked at each other.

  “I’ll call you,” he said.

  As Philip was driving out of the courtyard, Jules Mendelson came up the driveway in his dark blue Bentley. He stopped the car by the front door and got out. Walking over to where Pauline and Camilla were standing, he put his arms around Camilla and hugged her. To Philip, leaving, he appeared weary.

  When Philip Quennell told Jules Mendelson the night before, after refusing his Château Margaux wine from the Bresciani auction, that he did not have anything so dramatic as a drinking problem—“simply no taste for it”—he was not telling the truth, but it was an untruth with which he had long since come to terms. There had been in his past a problem, one with dire consequences, and as a result part of his life, a part that he never discussed with anyone, was spent in atonement. Twice each year he returned to the small town in Connecticut where he was born. He was the son of the town doctor, long dead, and had gone to good schools on scholarships. Across the causeway that separated Old Saybrook from Winthrop Point, an enclave for wealthy summer residents from Hartford and New Haven, was Sophie Bushnell, who had lived her life in a wheelchair since the accident that crippled her.

  At seven o’clock on the morning following Hector Paradiso’s death, Philip was seated in a small hall on Robertson Boulevard in West Hollywood, reading the Los Angeles Tribunal and drinking coffee from a cardboard container while waiting for the AA meeting to start. He tore through the paper looking for news of the violent event in which he had become involved. It surprised him that it was not mentioned on the first page, or in the first section. It surprised him more that it was not mentioned in the section known as the Metro section, which covered local news. Finally, on the obituary page, he found it in an inconspicuous position, quite easily missable, a small announcement of the death of Hector Paradiso. He folded the paper in half and then refolded it in quarters in order to read the item again to see if it bore some clue.