Dim Sum Dead (13 page)

“So you broke up with her that night?”

“Look, it’s not like I was breaking her heart, okay? I’m pretty sure she was seeing someone else. I get a bad rap for going through a lot of very beautiful women, but I’m not really so difficult to please. A lot of times the chick leaves me.”

Yeah, I thought. Right.

“Now look at you, there,” he said, smiling. “You don’t believe me. And that is terribly sweet. It is. But I guess I just
wasn’t famous enough or pretty enough to keep Quita’s attention. I am just a humble guy who directs TV ads. I wasn’t what she wanted as a steady follow-up to Mr. Movie Star Man.”

“Maybe she was really in love with Dickey McBride, then,” I said.

“She was fond of the old dude. She was impressed as hell to be Mrs. Big Name Star. You know that type. The fame game. She was into it. No, what you’re saying makes sense. I think she liked Dickey okay.”

I thought it over while a radio in the other room played a slow, sad Spanish song. “Did she ever tell you how he died?’

“She said he had a heart attack one night,” Buster said. “She was there, if you know what I mean.”

“That’s the rumor I had heard, too.” I nibbled my thumb. “So tell me this, Buster. When you were breaking up with Quita, what time was it?”

“Just after you all left the house. It must have been about one o’clock. Quita said she couldn’t stay with me,” he said.

I looked over at him in his bright green-and-aqua Hawaiian shirt and nodded. “Tell me the rest of it. After you and Quita argued that night, what then?”

“She left. She took off. It was like one-thirty or two.”

“But you didn’t go straight to sleep, right?” I asked.

“Not right away. I worked on the storyboards for the new video, then I played my N64 for a while. That was it. I swear. I never saw Quita again.”

“So,” Buster said, making a lame joke, “I guess your cop friend won’t let me leave the country now, anyway,” Buster said. “You have to tell him all this, don’t you?”

I nodded. “See? I told you this was a ridiculous game.”

He laughed. “If Quita slipped out there, it wasn’t my fault. I figured all this will sound a lot better coming from you. Sorry to get you mixed up in the middle.”

He had a conscience at least. He wanted to get out from under his little lie.

But I had a lot more questions to ask a lot more people.
And when I got the answers, it might just clear up what happened to Quita that night.

“I’ll take your message to my cop friend,” I said. “He’ll come back and terrorize you, though.”

“That’s cool. And maybe when it’s all over, I can take you to Copenhagen.”

T
he staccato on/off hissing of automatic sprinklers sounded like some hopped-up percussionist was laying down a light rhythm track for the dazzlingly bright day in the community of Bel Air. You’ll find this uppest-of-upscale L.A. neighborhoods is home to an older generation of money, that which is most often found in the pocketbooks of old movie stars, businessmen, and former Republican presidents. Bel Air folk have special needs. They crave a private driveway upon which to park the Rolls, lots of leafy trees under which to shade the latest face-lift, and thousands of square feet in which to display their highly insured collections.

This concentration of ultraplush homes creates a booming industry of day workers. Mansion upon mansion require a never-ending supply of workers to wash, polish, mow, trim, add chlorine, buff, fertilize, launder, wax, vacuum, sweep, blow-dry, press, cook, deliver, replant, clean, paint, fold, and dust.

As it turned out, getting Catherine Hill’s address was not a big trick. I called a caterer friend whose company does weddings for the old movie crowd and he had it on an invitation Rolodex. He was rather a dear about it. The inside information I had really been hoping for was a little harder to acquire. But that turned up, too, in the end.

Alba, the lovely woman from El Salvador who comes to my house three days a week is a godsend in more ways than her obvious skill with the Dustbuster. I remembered her
cousin Maria worked for a family in Bel Air on Bellagio Road. So that’s where we started and Alba got on the phone.

Her cousin Maria works with Rosa from Guatemala, and it turned out that Rosa’s sister-in-law Lillian was the nanny for Catherine Hill’s grandchildren. Imagine that. Lillian had the phone number for Sonia who worked days for Miss Catherine Hill. In L.A., we can play the Six Degrees game both upstairs and downstairs.

With just a few phone calls, I was speaking to Sonia, a sweet-voiced young woman with a light Spanish accent. She answered my question, telling me what time on Friday would be my best bet.

I timed my trip accordingly. I checked my watch as I drove up Bellagio Road. On either side were estates that would sell today in the two-to-ten range. That’s millions. Hidden behind tall fences and large hedges were the homes that once belonged to Ray Milland and Gene Roddenberry, Franchot Tone and Jim Backus, John Forsythe and Alfred Hitchcock.

On the 11500 block, I pulled my vintage Grand Wagoneer up to a pair of tall, wrought-iron gates. They barred a long brickwork drive that led up to Catherine Hill’s massive property.

I sat there in my car for a while, taking in the sounds and sights of the street. It was quiet, save the ubiquitous on/off hissing of the sprinklers. I pressed the speaker button on the gate and after a minute, a voice greeted me.

“Who is there, please?”

I was startled and thrilled at the voice. Instead of some anonymous employee, the voice that came from the speaker was completely familiar, smooth and girlish, with just a trace of a British accent.

Catherine Hill had starred in so many movies over so many years that a Buddhist priest from Mars might be the only individual in the galaxy not to recognize it instantly.

“Hello, Miss Hill. My name is Madeline Bean. I have a gift to deliver.”

“Yes?” she said sweetly. “From where?”

“My friend just bought Dickey McBride’s home. We
found Mr. McBride’s old mah-jongg set. I understand he had wanted you to have it.”

“Dickey’s mah-jongg tiles? What a kick. Can you drive in, Miss Bean? I’ll buzz you.”

The trick, here, in case any of you are going to try to charm your way into a celebrity’s compound is 1) don’t sound like a stalker, and 2) bring something the celebrity really, really wants.

The large automatic gate slowly swung open, and I drove onto Miss Catherine Hill’s property. It was a narrow drive, lined with precisely trimmed hedges. I followed the drive up a gentle grade to the portico, a two-story-high structure with enormous Tara-like white columns, and left my Jeep parked to one side.

The large front door was open when I pulled up and standing in the doorway was Catherine Hill herself. She was dressed in a turquoise green muumuu, and even more interesting, her world-famous head was wrapped in a gold turban. In case you haven’t seen her in the tabloids lately, Ms. Hill has ascended about a half dozen dress sizes since she ran almost naked to the sea in
Fiji Princess
in 1948. A muumuu covers a multitude of sins.

“Miss Beall, is it? How lovely of you to come over. Did you say you knew Dickey, my dear?” Her brightly colored lips stretched over perfect, white-capped teeth into a brilliant smile. Her face was just as I remembered it from all her many movies. Only older. Much, much older. But even with all her hair tucked up under the gold hair wrap, it was still clear to see why she had once been known as the Big Screen’s most intoxicating beauty.

I walked up two steps and met her on her front landing.

“Miss Hill, it’s a great honor to meet you. I am a huge fan of yours.”

I should point out that this is THE required Hollywood greeting when meeting any form of celebrity. This greeting has no actual meaning whatsoever—just like “hello” in other parts of the country. It’s simply the appropriate polite greeting in this town, no matter whom you might meet, whether it be Jesse “The Body” Ventura, or the woman who
years ago played the second Von Trapp daughter in
The Sound of Music,
or Snoop Doggy Dogg or the guy who does the voices on
Pinky and the Brain.
Without this greeting, most Hollywood insiders would be put momentarily ill at ease, and wonder how your mother raised you.

“I’m sorry I didn’t call first to set up an appointment, but then I didn’t have your phone number…”

“No, of course not. How could you? It’s impossible to get my phone number. It’s not only unlisted, it practically doesn’t exist.” Her dancing voice dipped and then returned in that pleasant musical way she had. I was mesmerized. The same charming voice that said, “I’ll always love you, Frank, but I can never forgive you,” on-screen to Gary Cooper, was now addressing me.

Catherine Hill smiled. “Finding my house, on the other hand, is never a problem. Just follow any tour bus up the street. They point this place out once every fifteen minutes without fail.”

“Oh dear,” I said with a trace of dismay in my voice, bonding a bit with the superstar movie queen of old over the sad lack of privacy one in her position must bear. Well, I mean…I could imagine it would be tough, couldn’t I? I had empathy.

“Please, come in,” she said sweetly. Throughout our little chitchat on the front steps, I knew she had been checking me out. What variety of stranger was I? A mental case who might cause injury? A rabid fan? A souvenir hunter who would dig up a plant or steal one of her little porcelain poodles? An Herbalife saleswoman?

I had dressed in my “good” clothes, ones that have labels people like Catherine Hill would recognize. Thanks to Wesley’s mother I had a small supply of such outfits. Mrs. Westcott is a clotheshorse and just my size. For years she has sent me last season’s wardrobe whether I could use it or not. To make a good impression on Catherine Hill, I wore a St. John knit suit in navy blue and white.

The star opened her front door wider to me. “Oh! Dear child. What have you brought me?”

My hands were full. I had carried from the car Dickey’s
old mah-jongg case and I was also rolling a professional food cooler.

“These are for you.”

“Oh, goody,” she squealed, sounding just like a five-year-old girl. “Gifties! Can I get Sonia to help you with any of that?”

“Please don’t bother. I’m fine.” I followed Catherine Hill into the darkened coolness of the house. Although the daytime temperature outside was about eighty-five, Catherine Hill kept her eleven thousand square feet of living space at a permanent sixty-eight degrees. She brought me into her large entry hall, which was a magnificent circular room, painted a deep persimmon pink.

Ms. Hill turned and looked at me brightly, her smile in place.

“It’s so nice of you to invite me in. Actually, I’m a professional chef, but I’m afraid we’ve never met.”

“Ah, yes?”

“My partner and I plan special events and cater parties. We did the breakfast for the pope last year.”

“Oh, yes? Really!” Catherine Hill gushed with a pretty smile.

I detected a bit of real warming up behind the professionally warm exterior.

“You must know Keely Bartolli? She does all my parties. Has for years.”

“Yes, of course I do. She’s wonderful. We’ve done a few parties together.”

“Have you? Isn’t she marvelous?”

One connection made. I was still proving myself.

“And then,” Catherine Hill said, frowning, “poor, poor Vivian Duncan. She did two of my weddings. You must know Vivian.”

“Oh, yes. Sadly, I was actually helping Vivian Duncan with a wedding when…” I didn’t feel I should finish. After all, Catherine Hill and I and everyone knew about Vivian’s unfortunate last party. At the time, it had been impossible to turn on a television set and not hear: “Woman found dead at wedding, film at eleven.” We both shook our heads.

“Yes.” Miss Catherine Hill gave me a rather penetrating look with her deep turquoise eyes. “I thought I recognized your name.” She had known who I was all along. Of course. Fame was the game she played best.

At close range, Catherine Hill looked somewhat better and yet somewhat worse than she had in the bright outdoor light. Age could not be denied. Her famous sharp chin was now only sharpish, and set in a rounder face. The profile of her famous heart-shaped face was still strikingly heart-shaped, only now the silhouette was subtly softened with years. She must have been close to seventy-five, but she looked at least ten years younger than that. In her heyday, in the fifties and sixties, she was described as having the loveliest lips on the Silver Screen. Now, their strong shape owed much to the curvy outline that was penciled in. In all, her strong beauty was still evident, if paying its dues to time.

“Come into the little parlor,” she said, cheerful as ever, leading the way. “Let’s look at what you brought me.”

Down the hall she turned to the left and we entered a chintz-covered den. The walls were padded and upholstered in an English print featuring big puffy pink hydrangea blooms amid green leaves. In fact, an entire English country garden bursting with flowers of all sorts covered each and every cushion and pad and sofa and window. I set the rosewood case down upon a small black tole tray table, while settling my caterer’s case in a corner beside a love seat.

I hadn’t quite realized how petite Miss Hill would be. On the screen she had seemed tall and slim and in perfect proportion. In the bright chintz room, I realized she might only be five feet tall. And while her figure had filled out over the years, her hands and feet were quite small and dainty. She turned to me, and so naturally I stopped staring.

“Now this is from Dickey, did you say, darling?” She glinted her turquoise greens up at me.

“Yes. Would you like to hear a strange story?” I asked.

“My dear child, I live for it.” She sat herself down in the center of one hydrangea-covered love seat and I took it for granted she wouldn’t mind if I sat down as well. I chose a
feminine-shaped wing chair with a forties feel to it, covered in a riot of violets.

Catherine Hill checked her wrist, on which tinkled a dozen little diamond bracelets and bangles and a small Cartier watch. “Oh, pooh!” She looked up. “I am expecting guests in about fifteen minutes. If they should come early, I’ll have to greet them, you see.”

“Of course.” I only had a short time, and I had many questions.

“So…” Miss Hill looked at me with interest. “You and Dickey were friends. Good friends, I imagine?”

“No. Oh, no. I never actually met Mr. McBride.”

“No?” Catherine Hill let out a loud, boyish laugh. “Well that’s probably a very lucky thing for you, my dear. Dickey was a dirty old man. He was scandalous.”

“Oh, really?”

“Truly. He was quite a rascal, our Dickey. He invented scandal. That man had quite an appetite for young ladies, I’m sure you have heard.”

“Well, yes I have. All those wives and models, of course. But I didn’t ever meet him, and I thought the stories were mostly gossip.”

“You are a very pretty girl, my dear. Very pretty with all that strawberry blond hair and those big hazel eyes and your slim figure. Do you act?”

“Me? No. Never.”

“Good for you.” Catherine Hill showed me her legendary dimples. “You are too smart for that nonsense.”

Now, what was the polite response to that? I simply skipped it and went on.

“Here’s the odd thing…the thing that brings me here today in a way. Through my work, I met Dickey McBride’s wife. I didn’t get to know her very well.”

“Which wife was that?” Catherine Hill pecked at this new topic of gossip like a bird finding a fresh juicy worm. “Was it Emilette? Emilette was a foolish woman, I always thought.”

“No. Her name was Quita.”

Catherine Hill looked at me blankly. The name did not seem to register.

“Quita McBride…” I said, trying to make things clearer, and failing. “…um, I don’t know her other name.”

Catherine Hill did not seem to know her. “I assume this was the girl whom darling Dickey was schtupping at the time he died?”

I looked at her wide-eyed.

“You hadn’t heard that rumor?” Catherine Hill looked extremely happy, just as I’d hoped. She loved to be the one to tell. “Frankly, I believe it. That’s just the way Dickey would have liked to go out. I just don’t remember if I ever met that last girl. They didn’t have a big wedding. That I know. It must have been wedding number five or six for Dickey. I told him, after the fourth, just have something simple. That’s what I did. Otherwise,” she said, confiding in me, “it’s just not in good taste.”

I nodded. Heck, I should have been taking notes. These were the etiquette tips one so rarely finds in the pages of Emily Post.

“If there had been a wedding,” Catherine Hill went on, “I’d have certainly been invited. It was our tradition, you see. We’d known each other for ages. Eons, actually. I like to say I’m the only beautiful woman in Hollywood that Dickey never slept with!” She laughed with glee, truly enjoying herself. I chuckled, too, careful to be polite.