An Inconvenient Woman (10 page)

As far as Rose Cliveden was concerned, the single disappointing note of the otherwise perfect funeral was the absence of Archbishop Cooning, who had declined her persistent requests to officiate at the Requiem Mass, even though she had contributed handsomely to the redecoration of the archbishop’s residence in Hancock Park. The archbishop, renowned
for the fiery sermons on the decline of morality in the nation he delivered each Sunday from the pulpit of Saint Vibiana’s, was not unaware of the secret life of Hector Paradiso, having heard his confession on more than one occasion, and he suspected that the circumstances of his death were other than were being reported. Mercifully, a conference at the Vatican called him from the city, and he was able to adhere to his standards without seriously offending Rose Cliveden.

Pauline was the person most devastated by Hector’s death. She had fostered the story—without ever stating it—that Hector, had he been able to love women, would have loved her. When Hector kissed her, as he sometimes did, in moments of affection, after parties, his kiss and even his embrace were not the kiss and embrace of a lover. Pauline understood that even with encouragement from her, which, of course, was not forthcoming, the kiss and embrace would lead to nothing more. It was an arrangement they both enjoyed. And Hector had loved Pauline, in his way, so sincerely that even Jules, who had grown more sophisticated during the years of his marriage, had no objection to the “love match,” and even found himself amused at times by Hector, who was funny and knew all the gossip about everyone, after an initial period of disliking him. “I have trouble with people who don’t do anything,” Jules said. On several occasions Hector had been their sailing companion when they chartered yachts and cruised the Dalmatian coast, or the Turkish coast, or the Greek isles. Pauline could not bear to think that Hector had died in sordid circumstances, and so had reluctantly accepted the suicide theory that Jules proposed when finally they were alone, after Camilla and Rose had departed.

“It’s better this way,” Jules had said.

“Why?” asked Pauline.

“It is a shabby and distasteful death,” said Jules.

“How so? Tell me.”

Jules blushed. “His sexual inclinations were, perhaps, pederastic,” he said.

“How arch, Jules,” said Pauline.

“You knew, then?”

“Of course I knew.”

“And didn’t care?”

“Oh, Jules, really. He was my friend.”

“This sort of death, if the circumstances get out, will
reflect badly on Hector, on his family, and on everyone concerned.”

“His only family is Camilla, and she is only a niece, and his death is certainly not going to reflect badly on her.”

“Well, his family that founded the city. It will reflect badly on the name Paradiso.”

“And the ‘everyone concerned’ you speak about? Does that mean us, Jules?”

“The fact that he was here in our house until a few hours before it happened, and the fact that you are known to be his great friend will certainly involve us, yes. It is the sort of publicity that will be bad at this moment, with the appointment to the economic conference in Brussels coming up for nomination. There is bound to be fallout, and it is best that this be the solution.”

“That he committed suicide?”

“Yes.”

“But who would believe such a story, Jules? People are not such fools.”

“That is a theory that I do not agree with at all.”

“But
I
don’t believe that story, Jules,” said Pauline quietly.

“Believe it,” he said.

“Are you ordering me to believe something I don’t believe?”

“Yes.” There was a harshness in his voice that she had never heard when he spoke to her. “Hector was ill, we will say, and Dr. James will confirm it. He was to have an operation, we will say. A bypass. I thought about saying he had AIDS, but this heart thing is better. More respectable. He was terrified of the operation, we will say, and terrified that he would be an invalid afterwards, and a burden to his friends. He had perhaps a few too many drinks, and he did this tragic thing.”

“Jules, please. Dr. James was Hector’s friend. He wasn’t actually his doctor. Mickie Cox was his doctor.”

“Only you know that, Pauline, and you’ve just forgotten it,” said Jules. He leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“But, surely, Dr. James will deny such a story, about an operation and a heart problem.”

“No, he won’t,” said Jules, quite emphatically, and Pauline understood that he meant that Dr. James would do as he said.

The suicide story began to be spread at the church, both before and after the Mass. “No, no, no,” said Sims Lord, when he was asked if Hector’s death had been a murder. “No, no, no,” said Freddie Galavant to the same question. Both Sandy Pond and Ralph White replied in a similar manner, as did several other public figures of the city. Then the word
suicide
was mouthed. It was a disappointment to many that they were being deprived of the excitement of a murder, which some continued to believe was the case, although they would shortly cease to express that belief.

Philip Quennell, sitting toward the back of the church, was surprised to see the girl who had introduced herself as Flo M. at the AA meeting walk up the aisle and take a seat two rows in front of him. Her expensive bag was suspended from her shoulder on a gold chain, and she lifted it as she genuflected in the Catholic manner. Once seated, she knelt, made the sign of the cross, and bowed her head in prayer. Unlike most of the people present, she did not look around to see who was there, but a man with long hair swept upward to cover his bald spot, sitting directly in front of Philip, nudged his two companions and indicated the young woman. They smiled at one another in recognition. The men, unknown to Philip and to most of the mourners present, were Manning Einsdorf, the owner of Miss Garbo’s, Joel Zircon, the agent, and Willard, Casper Stieglitz’s butler, all of whom had talked with Hector shortly before his death.

During the Mass Pauline turned to Jules, who seemed deep in thought.

“What are you thinking about?” she whispered.

“I have a meeting with Myles Crocker from the State Department tomorrow,” he whispered back. “About Brussels.”

“You’re thinking of that now?”

“Yes.”

“Do you never pray?”

“No.”

During the eulogy, the former ambassador spoke about Hector as a great friend to many people. “He cherished his friends,” said Freddie Galavant, looking at Pauline and Camilla and Rose as he spoke. “He was a man of such great taste and sensitivity that he chose to spare those friends from certain aspects of his life, which can only account for this great
tragedy. Good night, sweet prince. May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”

Several sobs could be heard in the church, as well as a single chortle from Cyril Rathbone, who whispered to those around him that he would have done better. Ahead of him, Philip noticed that Flo M. was crying. He saw her open her bag to get a handkerchief and realized from her searching in the bag that she had forgotten to bring one. When she wiped her tears away with her fingers, Philip took his own handkerchief from his pocket. He leaned forward through Manning Einsdorf and Joel Zircon, tapped Flo’s arm, and handed it to her. Flo nodded her head in thanks, but she did not turn to look at the person who gave her the handkerchief. She knew it was Phil Q. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye when she passed his pew looking for a seat.

During communion, the Catholics went to the altar, edging their way past the coffin to the rail where the monsignor, officiating at the Requiem Mass in the place of Archbishop Cooning, waited with lifted chalice. Among the communicants was Flo March.

Outside, after the Mass, on the steps of the church, Rose Cliveden raised her dark glasses and surveyed the crowd while the casket was being placed into the hearse by the pallbearers. “I was in floods the whole Mass,” she said to Pauline, who was standing next to her. Her powdered cheeks were smeared with the tears she had shed during the eulogy, and she made no attempt to wipe them away. “Such a lot of strange people at this funeral,” she continued, but Pauline was not in a chatting mood as she watched the proceedings. The unwelcome wreaths that Rose had so hated were being placed in a follow-up hearse, to be placed eventually on the gravesite at Holy Cross Cemetery, where the Paradiso family had a mausoleum.

Rose was undeterred by Pauline’s lack of response. “I thought I knew all of Hector’s friends. Who do you suppose these people are? Look at that amazing man with his gray hair swept up over his bald spot.” She was staring at Manning Einsdorf, who was standing with Joel Zircon and his friend Willard, watching the people emerge from the church. “Did you ever see so much hair spray? He looks like Ann Miller. I can tell you for a fact that our Hector would never know anyone like him, or his friends there. I think these people are just sightseers looking for celebrities, don’t you? Faye Converse, that’s who they’re looking for.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Jules talking with an unfamiliar young woman in the crowd.

The young woman spoke nervously when Jules Mendelson approached her. “Do you know what they call this church? Our Lady of the Cadillacs. The only poor people in this parish are the rich people’s maids.”

“What in the world are you doing here?” Jules asked. “I almost fell out of the pew when I saw you at the communion railing.” He talked to her without looking at her, as if he were looking for someone else.

“I knew Mr. Paradiso,” the young woman answered, defensively. “What do you think, I go to funerals of people I don’t know?”

“Hector? You knew Hector?”

“Yes.”

“Wherever from?”

“When I was a waitress at the Viceroy Coffee Shop, I used to serve him his coffee and croissant every morning,” Flo said. “He was a cheap tipper, all the girls said so, but he told me good stories. I could tell you a couple of Hector Paradiso stories that would make your hair curl, about the kind of people he used to see after he left all the society parties. I don’t buy this suicide story at all. I’ll tell you what I think happened.”

“I don’t want to hear,” Jules said brusquely, as if he were afraid she might start to tell him then and there. He signaled his chauffeur with a wave and indicated for him to bring the car around to the side street rather than wait behind the other limousines on Santa Monica Boulevard.

“Well, excuse me,” she said, grandly.

“I have to go. There’s my car.”

“You’re ashamed to be seen talking to me, aren’t you, Jules?”

“No,” he said quickly.

“Yes, I can see it. I can feel it.”

“I’ll be up later,” said Jules quickly, and then he moved on.

Looking away, her eyes met the eyes of Philip Quennell, who was watching her. She nodded to him faintly and mouthed the words “Thanks for the handkerchief.” He nodded back and smiled, but she did not go toward him, nor did he move toward her to speak.

“Look, Pauline, Jules is waving at you to go to the Bedford
Drive side of the church,” said Rose. “Are you going to the cemetery?”

“No, we’re not,” said Pauline.

“But you’re coming to my lunch at the Club, aren’t you?”

“Actually, we’re not, Rose. You do understand, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course, darling, but you’re very foolish to feel like that about the Los Angeles Country Club.”

“Call me later.”

“Isn’t it wonderful, Pauline, the way the Catholic church has relaxed its ban on burying suicides?”

Flo’s Tape
#6

“
I never knew how terrible it was to be poor until I had money. All that I ever wanted to do about my childhood was forget it, never to even think about it. It was terrible. My mother burned to death in a fire in a welfare hotel. I never knew who my father was. She used to say he walked out on us when I was one year old, but the older I got I came to believe that she didn’t actually know which one he was. It was like that
.”

W
hen, twenty-two years earlier, it was suggested a week before their marriage, during a meeting at the law firm that represented Jules Mendelson’s interests, that Pauline McAdoo sign a prenuptial agreement that would limit the amount of her settlement in the case of a divorce, Pauline read through the agreement without comment. When Marcus Stromm, Jules Mendelson’s lawyer of many years, handed her a pen from a penholder on his desk to sign the prenuptial agreement, Pauline tossed the folder back at him with such force that the pen fell out of Marcus’s hand and spattered black ink over the monogram on his custom-made white shirt. Then Pauline rose without looking at Jules, who had been seated at her side silently observing the scene, and left the office. No amount of protestations on Jules’s part at the bank of elevators could dissuade Pauline from entering the first car that arrived, without answering him or looking in his direction as the doors closed behind her. For Pauline, from a distinguished New York and Northeast Harbor family, the affront of being asked to sign such an agreement, as if she were a groupie marrying a rock star, only confirmed the deep reservations that her sisters had expressed from the beginning when she had told them she was considering marrying Jules Mendelson as soon as her divorce from Johnny Petworth was final. Her marriage to Johnny Petworth, which read well in the social columns, had been a disappointment almost from the beginning, and she could not envision a life with a man who had no more ambition than to be the very best in squash, backgammon, and bridge at the smartest clubs in the smartest resorts.