Well Bred and Dead

by Catherine O'Connell

I knew all too well how these things were. The very reason I maintained the shallow relationship with Sean was to attend to these things. I thought once again about last night and my response to Terrance’s abandoned advances. I had wanted him body and soul, not just body. It had been a long time since I had experienced anything on that level. But now that I had, I didn’t know how I could continue my affair with Sean.

  The need for higher intimacy had been reawakened in me, an awakening I would live to regret.

  Friends again, Charmian sat on the bed while I packed to leave Wednesday morning. The thought of returning to Chicago caused the loss of Ethan’s friendship to loom larger than ever. Here I was in the throes of unrequited love, and when I got home he wouldn’t be there to shore me up. My favorite shoulder to cry on was gone. I found myself angry at him again, blaming him for my latest misery, for killing himself and leaving those damned birth certificates which in turn took me to England which in turn led to my meeting Terrance Sullivan. Then I remembered Terrance’s silent promise to call me and had that happy to be alive feeling, the dreaded euphoria that can leave a worse hangover than the cheapest bottle of scotch in its wake.

  For obvious reasons, I couldn’t share these thoughts with Charmian. As it was, her endless prattling was driving me crazy and I started to pack even faster. “I do wish you would prolong your visit, Pauline. I have a million people I would love to introduce you to. Why you’ve practically just gotten here.”

  “I’ve accomplished what I came to do,” I said firmly, “and I thank you for all your hospitality, but I’ve got to get back.” Though she did present some very tempting arguments for staying, including a very first rate reception being held that evening at the Tate. But without Terrance Sullivan in the picture, none of it held any appeal. Besides, Ethan’s corpse waited for me at home.

  This time I sat in the back of the Bentley as Maxwell drove me to Heathrow. Finding the thought of making another crossing in economy unbearable, I upgraded to business class for an extra three thousand dollars. The British Airways service was exemplary, and I was glad for my decision despite the expense. The magic of Terrance Sullivan had me in its grasp. Even the very attractive businessman sitting next to me, who made it clear he was open for conversation, did nothing for me. I simply wasn’t interested.

  I should have known better than to be rude to a customs official. One must always be cautious with bureaucrats. But the abrasive manner in which he questioned me about carrying three bags for a three-day trip and having nothing to declare merited some sort of response. I told him that there was no way in creation that I could do any real shopping in such a short period of time, which started the other agents around him laughing. Obviously needing to reestablish his manhood, he took his revenge by pulling me aside and hand-searching my luggage, piece by piece. He zeroed in right away on my unused Montana jacket and Lanvin suit, not to mention three pairs of Italian shoes I’ve never worn and two Italian handbags I have yet to carry.

  It might have been a losing argument for me, had I not been through these hoops before. Having learned a long time ago to carry receipts for my couture clothes when traveling overseas, I strung him along, letting him think he had me. Then I produced the credit card chits proving every item in question had been purchased in the United States. It may have ruined his day, but it added to mine immeasurably.

  He scribbled on my declaration form and stormed off in an impotent snit, leaving me with my trio of open and unpacked Louis Vuitton suitcases.

  12

  Power of the Press

  Upon arriving home Wednesday afternoon, Fleur shunned me by hiding beneath one of the living room sofas well out of reach. She did this whenever I left her alone for any period of time. I tried to entice her back out with promises of a treat, but she remained obstinate. Knowing she would come out in good time, I went into the library to sort through the neat stack of mail and newspapers Jeffrey had left just inside my door.

  The first letter was from the co-op board, and thinking it was the minutes from last month’s board meeting, I made the mistake of opening it. Instead, it was a notice that the building needed some infrastructure repairs so there would be a seventy-five-thousand-dollar special assessment, payable next month. Considering my available resources, it may as well have been seventy-five million. This unexpected financial bomb left me with little incentive to open the rest of the mail, most of which I knew to be bills. I dropped the smoldering stack of envelopes into the top drawer of my secretary and shut them out of sight.

  Telling myself the knot in my stomach was simple indigestion, I turned to my phone messages. There were the standard social invitations, a luncheon at the Women’s Athletic Club followed by slides of Eunice and Amy Winston’s mother-daughter trek in Burma, a private showing of collection jewelry at Bulgari with Signor Bulgari himself, a last minute wine tasting dinner at my downstairs neighbor’s. Next, the sound of Sean’s voice asking “How are you and where are you?” made me realize I’d never told him I was going to London. There was a tug at my heartstrings at the thought that the next time I saw Sean would be the last. If nothing else had been accomplished on my trip, my mind was made up about breaking it off with him.

  Detective Velez had left a message to call him and Whitney had left three, one each day I was gone. Finally there was a message from Sunny. She made no mention of our disagreement at Scarlet’s, but asked in a terse and agitated voice if I had seen today’s Tribune.

  I picked up my copy of the paper to see what had Sunny so up in arms and found it right there on the front page. In the right-hand column was a feature article written by Connie Chan entitled “A-LIST AUTHOR TURNS B-GRADE.” Evidently she had learned about the existence of the phantom birth certificates without the help of either Sunny or I. It also appeared while I had been traipsing about the English countryside in search of more knowledge about Ethan, Connie had conducted her own investigation into his life, one far more thorough than my own. She had contacted the educational institutions he claimed to have attended, Boston College for his undergraduate degree and Columbia for his master’s. Neither school had any record of him, either as Ethan Campbell or Daniel Kehoe. She dug even deeper, contacting society people whose names Ethan had dropped over the years, including the Eastman family, a deceased member of which he had claimed as his godfather. Not a one of them had any notion of who he was. After shamelessly repeating verbatim some anecdotes from lunch at Scarlet’s, she went on to write:

  But most amazing is how he deceived the very people who were his biggest supporters, who did the most to promote him. The loquacious Mrs. Nathan Livermore, known in social circles as Sunny, told me at a recent lunch that she had always thought there was something about him that didn’t fit, that he was always trying too hard. But that didn’t prevent her from introducing him into her circles and treating him to numerous affairs and fundraisers on her dime.

  Probably best recognized as a constant sidekick was Mrs. Pauline Cook, widow of the late Henry. The two were practically inseparable, and although she was unavailable for comment, friends say she is not only devastated by Mr. Campbell’s death, but by the notion that someone she had been so close to most likely had hoodwinked her.

  So after being officially ruled a suicide by the County Coroner, the body sits on a cold block in the county morgue awaiting the results of an FBI fingerprint check while Chicago society asks itself, “Who was this man who called himself Ethan Campbell?”

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, the picture prominently accompanying the article was one of Sunny, Ethan, and myself, taken at last spring’s Arts Club Gala. The camera angle made it look like Ethan’s face was stuck in Sunny’s breasts while I looked on in startled delight.

  I laid the paper down in disgust. I understood the motive behind Connie’s biting and malicious attack on Ethan. She was taking her pound of flesh, albeit dead flesh, for the times he dressed her down in public. But it didn’t explain why she had chosen to include Sunny and me in the butchery
.

  I called Mrs. Nathan Livermore who was less than loquacious. “My God, Pauline, have you read it?”

  “I’ve just finished.”

  “Skinny flat-chested Oriental bitch. You were right. I never should have invited her to that lunch. What could have prompted her to say such nasty things?”

  “She and Ethan had their differences,” I replied.

  “Forget what she said about Ethan. What about us? She made us look like a couple of country bumpkins! And it was on the front page of The Tribune. Everyone is town is reading it and laughing at us. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  Sunny’s true colors were showing, as typical as cold driving rain in March. She wasn’t in the least concerned about Ethan’s good name but rather her own. Of course, I too was irate over Connie’s article, no fonder of being made a fool of than Sunny, but I wasn’t going to admit it. Something about Sunny’s anger served as a panacea to my own. With forced calm I said, “I must admit the picture of us was none too flattering.”

  “Don’t even mention the picture.” I thought she was going to cry. “I can’t bear the thought that everyone in this city sees me as a dupe.”

  “Sunny,” I said, “so what if Ethan was born Daniel Kehoe and used a nom de plume? It isn’t as though it’s a crime. Writers do it all the time. We know people who have changed a great deal more than their names.”

  “What about his lies about his schools and his background?”

  “We don’t know for certain that he lied.”

  “You don’t know for certain. Connie Chan sure seems to. Oh, and by the way, Nat has announced he’s not giving cent one toward the funeral.”

  My choke collar tightened another notch.

  I hung up and picked up this week’s edition of Pipeline, turning to Elsa’s column. As promised, her treatment of Ethan was far gentler than Connie’s. She sung praises of his two books and lamented his untimely death. She wrote of his irrepressible joie de vivre and his irreplaceable presence on the social scene. She commended him for always finding time in his busy schedule to give her a call just to say hello. And finally, she mentioned the mystery presented by the posthumously found birth certificates.

  So who was Ethan Campbell? We hope some family member will come forth to tell us. Or perhaps we will never know. But even if no clear answer is ever to emerge, we can remember him as a gentle man, a dear friend, a person with a great appreciation for style and class and the days of gentle restraint that have passed us by—replaced by the vulgarity and glitz so in vogue today. Quixotic as he was, he represented a way of life that is rapidly disappearing in this fast-paced computer age of ours. We will miss you greatly, Ethan Campbell, whoever you were.

  I closed the paper and pushed back a tear.

  After unpacking, I called Detective Velez and apologized for not getting back to him sooner, explaining that I had been out of town. I made no mention of where I’d been or that I’d learned the Ethan Campbell of Bury St. Edmunds had gone missing, telling myself it wasn’t pertinent and would only add to the confusion surrounding my Ethan’s death. Deep inside I knew it was to protect my friend’s reputation, as well as my own, from any further savagery.

  “I wanted to let you know the M.E. has officially ruled Mr. Campbell’s death a suicide,” the detective said, “but if you saw today’s Tribune you already know that.”

  Sunny was right. Everybody was reading that article.

  “So what happens to the body now?” I asked.

  “The County Administrator is still waiting for the FBI’s fingerprint check before releasing it. Like I told you, it could take weeks. He’s not exactly a priority. If the Feds don’t turn anything up, and no family has come forward by then, we can release him to you if you want him. Otherwise, the state’ll take care of it.

  “By the way,” he continued, without taking a breath, “I nearly forgot to tell you. I contacted that Juan Cardoza in Puerto Rico you told me he used to work for. Very nice gentleman. He didn’t know anything about Mr. Campbell’s family background, but he did confirm Mr. Campbell was in his employ for nearly twenty-five years. He also told me, as he recalled it, Mr. Campbell was born in England but raised in the U.S.”

  While I digested this latest contradiction of Ethan’s, my call-waiting prompt sounded. “Detective, if there’s nothing else, I’m afraid I have to go. There’s someone else on the line.” I disconnected him and took the incoming call. It was Sean, and he sounded extremely put-out with me.

  “That’s it, use me and then throw me away like yesterday’s trash,” he said. “Don’t you return phone calls?”

  “I’m sorry, Sean. Something came up and I had to go to London. I didn’t get a chance to call you before I left. I apologize.”

  “London? What were you doing in London?”

  “I thought I was looking into something about Ethan. As it turns out I was just chasing my tail.”

  “Hey, I read all about Ethan in The Tribune today. What a story with the possible multiple identities and all? Did you know about that?”

  “He didn’t have multiple identities. He had one. We’re just not sure what it was.”

  “Well, I guess he never hurt anybody or anything, so what’s the big deal, right? If it was up to me I’d just let it go and let the guy rest in peace.”

  “Therein lies the problem. It seems we need to know who he was before he can rest in peace.” My desire to find the truth was growing stronger than ever. Which meant another trip. This time to Boston, the birthplace of Danny Kehoe, the owner of the other birth certificate found in Ethan’s apartment. If I got real lucky I might not only find out who Ethan was but find some family to bury him. Even if I ended up burying him myself, at least I would know exactly who was in the casket.

  “So, how about I take you to dinner tonight, get your mind off all the craziness,” Sean was saying, though I barely heard him over the static of my own brain. “Earth to Pauline, are you there? Dinner? Tonight? Eat?”

  “I can’t, Sean,” I begged off. “I’ve got a terrible case of jet lag. Besides, I’ve got some planning to do. I’m going to Boston tomorrow.”

  “Boston?” he asked incredulously.

  “Yes, Boston.”

  “Because of Ethan?”

  “Because of Ethan.”

  “Pauline, you are possessed.” There was a pause and then, “Hey, I got a great idea. I’m off for the next couple of days. How about I come with you and help?”

  I imagined this proposition was based on me providing the airline ticket, and since meeting Terrance, the thought of spending a night with Sean had lost all appeal. Of course, Sean had no way of knowing this or that things between us were about to come to an end. I didn’t think it fair to inform him over the phone, no matter how shallow our relationship was. The breakup would have to wait until my return. “That’s a kind thought, but I think I’ll be more efficient on my own.”

  “Yeah, but when you go back to your lonely hotel room at…where you gonna stay?”

  “I always stay at the Four Seasons.”

  “Yeah, so like I was saying, when you go back to your room at the Four Seasons, don’t you think it would be nice to have a little ‘room service’ waiting.”

  He was getting annoying. “Sean, really. I need to go alone.”

  There was a measured silence and then, “Well, we can still have dinner tonight.”

  Evidently, my young soon-to-be-former paramour was not getting the message. “All I can think of is getting a good night’s sleep,” I said firmly.” I’ll call you as soon as I get back.”

  This time he spoke with anger in his voice, an emotion I had not yet witnessed in him. “Yeah, I’ll talk to you when you get back.” He hung up without a good-bye.

  While I wondered if there was any logical reason for feeling badly about Sean, Fleur came into the room and mewed loudly. She had finally forgiven me for deserting her. I picked her up and stroked her, holding her ears close to her head while she purred with unabashed pleasur
e.

  “You love me now, all right, but by tomorrow night you are going to be very upset with me again,” I said to the only living breathing creature left to count on in this world.

  13

  Tempting Fate

  The plane landed at Logan with a thump. Several of the overhead bins popped open spilling their contents onto some of my fellow passengers, causing me to wonder if taking a bargain airline had been such a good idea after all. However, we taxied to the gate without further event. While the proletariat surged to get off the plane, I remained in my seat reading from The Collected Works of Henry James. When the last of them had finally disembarked, along with their wheeled carts, strollers, and shopping bags, I closed my book and peacefully took leave of the aircraft myself.

  Knowing a car would be indispensable, I rented one at the airport and drove into the city. Time had softened my memory of how truly atrocious Boston drivers were, undoubtedly the most brazen people I have ever encountered behind the wheel. After being cut off twice in the Ted Williams Tunnel, and several more times along the way, I managed to pull up in front of the Four Seasons unscathed. Respectably located down the street from Piano Row, where the world’s finest piano makers once crafted their instruments and Steinway still does, the hotel is also near Beacon Hill, where many of my friends once resided. Though I still had several acquaintances living along its winding cobblestone streets, many of the venerable old mansions had been sold off and subdivided into that ubiquitous blight on urban living, the condominium. Still, I retained my fondness for Boston, home to poet Robert Lowell and one of the most European of all American cities.

  With the sound of angry horns still ringing in my ears, I happily turned the car over to the hotel valet and went into the lobby. The cool marble expanse was adorned with carefully selected antiques. At the reception desk, I requested a room overlooking Public Garden. The young clerk looked at her computer and regretted that the only park-side rooms available were suites at a substantially higher rate than I was paying. Even though it cost several hundred dollars more than my original room would have, I ended up taking a grand suite. I simply couldn’t fathom being in Boston in the spring and not having a view of the tulips in full bloom.