Basil Plant always claimed that Candles at Lunch, his long-anticipated novel, was finished, although his detractors, of whom there were many, said that his much-publicized writer’s block was a permanent condition, brought on by drink and drugs, and that his writing career was over. Three chapters of Candles at Lunch were published in Monsieur magazine, causing a scandal that resulted in Basil’s being ostracized by the very people he wrote about. The rest of the book was never forthcoming, although Basil always assured his publisher that the book was finished and would be turned in when he had completed the final refinements. When he died, the manuscript could never be found, and the first three chapters were ultimately published as a famous unfinished novel. Philip read:
“I’m looking for a Mr. Burns, a Mr. D. F. Burns? Am I speaking with that gentleman?”
“You could be and then again you could not be,” answered Burnsie.
“That’s you, Mr. Burns, I just know. I absolutely know.”
“You’re from the South, ma’am?” asked Burnsie.
“You are too, I just know.”
“With whom am I speaking?” asked Burnsie.
“My friend Kate McDaniels tells me you are a scream, an absolute scream, and that we should meet.”
“Mrs. McDaniels and I are not on good terms, ma’am. In fact, Mrs. McDaniels fired me from her employ sometime back and has left me in rather embarrassing straits, which is the reason you have tracked me down at such a down-at-the-heel residence as the Yucca Flats Arms in the wrong part of Hollywood. Now, who did you not tell me you are?”
“I’m your fairy godmother.”
“Hmmmm,” said Burnsie.
“What I have here in my hand for you, Mr. Burns, is an invitation from Kate McDaniels to meet her tonight at the Bel Air Hotel and take her to a party in the Upstairs Room at the Bistro in Beverly Hills.”
So fascinated was Philip Quennell by what he was reading that he did not hear the shower in the bathroom turn off. He realized that Basil Plant’s manuscript could never be found because it was sitting in the bungalow of a hustler and pornography star on Cahuenga Boulevard in Los Angeles, who had also gone home from Miss Garbo’s with Hector Paradiso on the night he was murdered. He did not hear the sounds of Lonny Edge singing “Singin’ in the Rain” as he dried himself off either. So he was totally unprepared when Lonny danced into the room, completely naked, and sang “Da-daaaa,” in the manner of Gene Kelly.
The two young men looked at each other in astonishment.
“Holy fucking shit,” said Lonny.
“Apparently I am not whom you were expecting,” said Philip, at the same time.
“You can say that again,” answered Lonny. “I thought you were Cyril Rathbone.” He grabbed his wet towel from the hook on the bathroom door and wrapped it around his waist.
“I’m Philip Quennell,” said Philip. He held out his hand. “I got your address from Zane, the bartender at Miss Garbo’s. I would have called first, but he didn’t give me your telephone number, and it’s not listed.”
Lonny looked at Philip appreciatively with wanton, slightly bloodshot eyes, and smiled. “Welcome. Any friend of Zane’s, et cetera, et cetera. I mean, I wish I’d known in advance. I’ve got another trick at four, so we’ll have to be quick, or we can set it for tomorrow. The thing is, Cyril’s a regular, every Thursday at four, and a fussy one, very precise, gets kind of bitchy if I’m late, so I can’t put him off, because it’s like, you know, regular income.”
Philip was at a loss for words. “Listen, why don’t you get dressed so we can talk until your friend comes.”
“I’m not cold,” said Lonny. He retied the towel around his middle and walked over to the table where Philip had been reading to put the pages back in order.
For a moment, Philip’s interest was divided between the manuscript and the reason he had come in the first place. “I suppose you think it’s odd that I’ve come here,” he said, trying to get into his subject.
“My God, how come you’re paying for it, a good-looking guy like you?” asked Lonny, as he took Philip in. “Oh, I got it. I bet I have this one figured out right. You’re married, right? And your wife’s having a baby, right? And you’re horny, right? Well, you’ve come to the right house, Cyril Rathbone or no Cyril Rathbone.”
Philip spoke quietly. “No. I’m not here for what you think I’m here for, Lonny.”
Lonny, suddenly suspicious, walked back to the bathroom and took a terry cloth robe off a hook on the bathroom door. He put it on. On the pocket of the robe was written in green THE BEVERLY HILLS HOTEL.
“What gives?” he asked. “What do you mean? How come you walked into my house like this? This is my private property.”
“I wanted to ask you a couple of questions.”
“You a cop?”
“No.”
“A reporter?”
“No.”
“What then?”
Philip did not reply. The questions were not unreasonable. What was he? he wondered. Not a cop. Or a reporter. He didn’t know how to explain himself. Lonny Edge was not what he’d expected the killer of Hector Paradiso to be.
“I have curiosity about the death of Hector Paradiso,” he said finally.
Lonny, frightened, swallowed. “What the fuck would I know about the death of Hector Paradiso?”
“You were with him when he left Miss Garbo’s on the night he died,” said Philip.
“Who says?”
“Several people. Zane among them.”
“And what are you exactly to Hector Paradiso? Family? Lawyer? What?” asked Lonny.
Again Philip did not immediately answer. He was nothing to Hector Paradiso. He had seen him only twice in his life. Once at Pauline Mendelson’s party, dancing the night away, without a care in the world, and a few hours later, lying dead in the library of his house with five bullets in him. He could not even answer, “I am the lover of Hector Paradiso’s niece,” because he was no longer the lover of Hector Paradiso’s niece, and Hector Paradiso’s niece seemed as willing as everyone else to believe the theory put forth by Jules Mendelson that he had died a suicide, despite all evidence to the contrary.
“I believe he was murdered,” Philip said.
“And you think I did it?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I don’t know why I’m here,” said Philip, quietly. “I just wanted to see what you looked like, and you’re not at all what I thought you’d look like.”
For a moment the two men stood in silence and appraised each other.
“What’s your name again?” asked Lonny.
“Quennell. Philip Quennell.”
“Look, I hit him a bit, because he wanted me to hit him a bit. I slapped him around with the soles of his black patent leather dancing pumps, because that’s what he liked me to do to him, and that’s how he got his rocks off. And I strapped him with a belt, but that’s as far as it went. You know those rich guys? They’ve got everything in the world, but they hate themselves. And they like someone from the lower orders, like me, to tell them they’re shit, and less. Do you know guys like that?”
Philip, who didn’t know guys like that, nodded as if he did. “There was no fight, about money or anything?”
Lonny nodded his head. “Yeah, we had words about money. He paid me by check. I don’t take checks. This is a strictly cash business, even with my regulars, like Cyril.”
“So how did he pay you?”
Lonny shrugged. “By check. He said that was the arrangement he made with Manning Einsdorf. I didn’t know he was dead until I got a call from Manning the next day. I swear to God.”
“Did you fight over the gun?” asked Philip.
“There was no gun, I swear to God.”
“The police didn’t question you then?”
“No.”
“Did someone called Jules Mendelson question you?”
Lonny stared at Philip. There were footsteps
outside the screen door. “Hello-oo,” came a voice from outside.
“Jesuschrist, it’s Cyril,” said Lonny.
“Hello-oo,” said Cyril Rathbone again, knocking on the screen door at the same time.
“Come on in, Cyril,” said Lonny.
“I brought you some cupcakes,” said Cyril, walking into the room with a bakery box in his hand. He spoke in a frothy English voice. Cyril Rathbone was forty, dressed in a double-breasted seersucker suit, with a white shirt and pink tie. On his head was a stiff straw hat worn at a rakish angle.
“This is Cyril. Meet my friend, uh, Phil Quin,” said Lonny, nervously making introductions.
Philip nodded to Cyril Rathbone, who turned away. He appeared troubled by an unwelcome stain he discovered on his pink tie.
“Damn,” he said.
“What’s the matter, Cyril?” asked Lonny.
He pointed to his tie. “Mayonnaise,” he said. “Do you have any club soda?”
“I was just leaving,” said Philip.
He walked to the door.
“The gin’s in the kitchen, Cyril,” said Lonny. “Ice is in the tray. Make yourself a drink.”
Lonny followed Philip to the door, and the two men walked outside.
“This is my four o’clock appointment,” said Lonny.
“I gather.”
“Cyril doesn’t know I was with Hector on the night he died. They were great friends. He wouldn’t have liked it that I tricked with Hector. I don’t want him to know.”
“I’m not going to tell him,” said Philip. “Was the houseboy there that night? Anyone like that?”
“Only that fucking little dog, Astrid,” said Lonny.
“You didn’t answer me about Jules Mendelson before,” said Philip.
Lonny paused. “Jules who?”
A voice called out from another bungalow. “Hey, Lonny, you left your grapefruit and your coffee container on the fountain this morning, and the super’s pissed off.”
“All right, all right, I’ll pick it up,” Lonny called back.
“He says you’re turning the place into a pigsty.”
“Jesuschrist,” said Lonny irritably. He walked over to the fountain and picked up the remnants of his breakfast. “I gotta go.”
Philip nodded and started to walk off. Then he stopped and looked back. “How well did you know Basil Plant?”
“Basil Plant?” asked Lonny, surprised.
“Yes. How well did you know him?”
“I knew Basil pretty well,” said Lonny.
“Where did you get that manuscript on your table?”
“That’s a long story,” said Lonny.
“I’d like to hear,” said Philip.
“Stole it from him one night when he was drunk and belligerent. Why?”
“He didn’t ever ask you about it later?”
“He didn’t remember I took it. And then he died.”
“And you never showed it to Cyril Rathbone?” asked Philip.
“Cyril comes here for one thing and one thing only. We don’t talk much.”
“That manuscript’s worth a lot of money, if it’s what I think it is,” said Philip.
“Really?” He seemed interested.
“I’m at the Chateau Marmont, if you ever want to talk about it.”
“Sure. Sorry you’re straight. I wouldn’t have charged you.”
Philip laughed. “Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers, as if remembering something.
“What?”
“Ina Rae called when you were in the shower. She wants you for a four-way on Sunday night, late.”
Philip walked across the patio to the wooden stairway that led to the sidewalk below and started down.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” called out Lonny, from the top of the stairs to the retreating figure.
“What’s that?” answered Philip.
“I wasn’t the only gentleman caller on Hector Paradiso that night,” said Lonny.
Philip stared up at him and then started to reclimb the stairs, but Lonny held up his hand. “Not now, fella. I got a customer waiting. My rent’s due.”
When Philip opened the door of his room at the Chateau Marmont, he was surprised to see the door to the balcony that looked down on Sunset Boulevard open. For a moment he thought he had been robbed, or was even in the process of being robbed. Slowly, without getting in the view of the balcony door, he edged his way along the wall toward it and, reaching it, slammed it shut and bolted it. Instantly a woman’s face appeared on the other side. It was Camilla Ebury. They stared at each other through the glass for a moment. Then Philip unbolted the door and opened it. Camilla walked into the room.
“I thought it was about time I saw where you lived,” she said. She looked at him shyly, as if she were unsure of how he would receive her.
He smiled at her. “Am I glad to see you,” he said. “I thought you were a burglar.”
“No. Just a lady looking for a guy she missed.” She was embarrassed by her straightforwardness.
“I am deeply touched. I hated leaving your house like that.”
“I couldn’t bear it that you walked out on me,” she said. “I didn’t realize how incredibly fond of you I was. Oh, I mean I did realize it. I’ve realized it ever since we met, and I didn’t want you to leave me.” Camilla seemed close to tears.
Philip walked over to her and took her in his arms. “I’m glad you’re here,” he said. He held her very tight for several moments and then looked at her, touching her face before he kissed her. It was less a kiss of sexual desire than a kiss of the first stirrings of love.
“I have to tell you something, so there’re no misunderstandings between us,” said Philip. He stepped back from her and looked at her. “I went to see Lonny Edge.”
“Who’s Lonny Edge?”
“The guy from Miss Garbo’s I heard went home with Hector.”
She nodded. “I assumed that’s where you went. Was he awful?”
“Not awful at all. A bit dim, perhaps. But not awful.”
“Well, tell me. I came after you, didn’t I? I want to hear. I want to know. Everything.”
“He acts in porn videos and is apparently quite a star in that field.”
“Good God. He didn’t show you his videos, did he?”
“No.”
“Did he leave Miss Garbo’s with my uncle?”
“Yes.”
“Well, what happened?”
“Something odd.”
“What?”
“I don’t think he’s the one who killed your uncle.”
Flo’s Tape #12
“As you know, I always had aspirations to be an actress, but I’d never done much about it, except get my pictures taken for my portfolio. So, after I got my house on Azelia Way in order, I had nothing but time on my hands, and I thought now or never. I didn’t know where to start even, and I certainly wasn’t going to mention it to Jules because he would have come up with some reason for me not to. Oddly enough, Glyceria, of all people, had an important show business contact, and it wasn’t Faye Converse. Her sister was the maid for a casting director at Colossus Pictures, and she arranged for me to meet the casting director, and the casting director sent me up for a reading for a leading part in a miniseries, in the event that they went with an unknown. The part was a wrong-side-of-the-tracks girl who marries into high society and then shoots her husband. The twist is that his mother, who hates her, stands behind her, but you don’t need to know the damn plot.
“Well, I got all dolled up. Pooky did my hair, and Blanchette did my nails, and I walked into that office like I owned the world. I talked in my new fancy voice, like I’d once heard Pauline Mendelson talk, and Madge White, and Camilla Ebury. I was great in the meeting, being introduced to the producers and the director, chatting with them and making them laugh. They said incredible things about me, like I could be the new Maureen O’Hara, or Rhonda Fleming, or Arlene Dahl, because of the red hair. Everything was going great. An
d then they asked me to read. I panicked. I just clammed up. I couldn’t do it. I stumbled over the lines, and even mispronounced some of the words. I know I turned beet red, and that kind of red and red hair don’t match. I asked if I could start over again, and they said sure, but I knew by the way they said sure that I’d already lost the part.
“I never told Jules about it. The casting director that Glyceria’s sister worked for said he’d call me the next time something came up, but I never heard from him again. Anyway, they gave the part to Ann-Margret. I guess they had to go with a name.”
13
“Who is this woman?” asked the interior decorator Nellie Potts about her latest client. Nellie was having lunch at the Ivy on Robertson Boulevard with the fashionable florist, Petra von Kant, whose shop was nearby.
“I have my suspicions,” answered Petra, tapping her glass and indicating to the waiter that she would like another Bloody Mary.
“She’s spending forty thousand dollars for new curtains in a rented house, not to mention knocking down a wall to have her dressing room and closets made bigger,” said Nellie.
“All those Chanel suits,” said Petra, who had started to arrange the flowers of the lady under discussion.
“But imagine spending all that money when she only has a three-year lease on that house.”
“That’s not your worry.”
“She doesn’t have the look of inherited money.”
“Heavens, no.”
“And yet she doesn’t seem to work.”
“Or do much of anything,” said Petra. “She never stops talking. She wants to hear what parties I’m doing the flowers for and what flowers my clients have ordered, and even how much everything costs.”
An Inconvenient Woman Page 18