Randall #01 - The Best Revenge (24 page)

Chapter 25—A Polka Dot Submarine

By the time they reached Venice, Camilla’s sides ached from laughing. Even though they hadn’t seen anybody following when they left the theater—by the shop door, carrying a couple of papier-mâché palm trees as cover—Plant took them on another careening ride through the environs of Los Angeles, this time in a rented ’82 Chrysler with some real pick-up.

Now, as they walked down the pathway to a tiny building behind the main house at the address Franny had given them, Camilla joined in as Plant sang his repertoire of nautically themed songs.

“We all live in a yellow submarine,” Plant searched his pockets for Franny’s keys.

“Yellow submarine, yellow submarine.” Camilla deepened her voice to an almost masculine range.

“Shut up, you goddam faggots!” shouted an angry voice from the front house.

This outburst convulsed them both with such a fit of giggles that when Plantagenet got the door open, they almost tumbled into the room, falling together onto a black chintz sofa, where they sat panting for air.

Wiping his laugh-tears with a sleeve, Plant said, “God, I’m hungry. Are you hungry, sailor?”

“I could eat a whale.” Camilla looked at her watch. It said 10:34 PM. she hadn’t eaten since her jail breakfast.

“Let’s see what Franny’s got in the fridge.” Plant explored an alcove that contained a tiny sink, a stove and a small, ancient refrigerator. “Oh, yum. Some bread that’s eligible for Medicare, a jar of mustard, and half a burrito that Father Junipero Serra left behind in 1725.”

“What kind of mustard?”

“Darling, I wouldn’t feed you a jar of mustard for dinner, even if it was Grey Poupon.” He searched Franny’s cupboards. “Since Franny obviously does not often dine at home, I think I’d better make a jaunt to the local market. What do you feel like?”

“Anything. As long as it’s fast.”

Plantagenet opened the door and tilted his sailor cap forward.

“Two burgers and fries for our fighting Navy men. I promise not to stop at a tattoo parlor on the way home.” He walked off singing ‘Anchors Aweigh’.

Her giggles stopped as soon as the door shut behind him. She felt alone and trapped in the tiny apartment. She looked around, expecting to find a door to a bedroom, but soon she saw that the place was just a tiny one-room studio, probably a converted tool shed. It might have seemed quite cozy and dollhouse-like, but unfortunately, it was decorated entirely in screaming red and black lacquer and chintz. A huge picture of Liza Minelli in her red dress from
New York
, New York
dominated a whole wall. The one small window was nearly obscured by a yellowing dieffenbachia. She took a red satin pillow, shaped like a giant pair of lips, from a black and red polka-dot chair and tossed it on the couch, where a number of similar pillows were arranged. It didn’t help. The place was going to take some getting used to.

Feeling decidedly silly in the sailor suit, she ripped off the hat and wig and washed off the heavy make-up. In the only closet, she found a sort of unisex short black satin kimono. Franny was right. They wore the same size.

She turned on the small TV perched on an entertainment center under Liza’s picture and tried to relax as she watched the end of a
Love Boat
episode. But the music stopped abruptly and a blonde woman announced happily that something unspeakable had happened in El Salvador. She smiled and went to the next topic—

“Camilla Randall, the jet-set party girl accused of killing actor Jon-Don Parker, was released on bail this afternoon.”

The picture changed and Camilla saw herself, clutching Plantagenet, making her hurried exit from the county jail. In the wrinkled, childish dress, with her stringy hair and no make-up, she looked like some 5-year-old who’d just been rescued from a well. She sank further down into the polka dot chintz as she watched herself smirk at the camera.

She wanted to turn it off, but felt unable to move as she watched a man who sold cars stand on his head on the hood of a pick-up truck. She watched herself and Plantagenet walk out of the jail again.

“No comment,” the TV Plantagenet said. He looked handsome and forceful.

“Playwright Plantagenet Smith, Miss Randall’s fiancé, has refused to talk to reporters except to say that Camilla has been through a terrible ordeal and needs rest.”

The picture changed and Angela Harper emerged from the same doorway, followed by a rumpled Jonathan Kahn.

“Earlier today,” the voice went on, “Angela Harper, the folksinger-activist, who may be responsible for raising the funds for Miss Randall’s one million dollar bail, had this to say after visiting the alleged murderess in jail this morning.”

“Camilla Randall is a political prisoner,” Angela said in a powerful voice. “She has been chosen as a scapegoat in this case because of her feminist politics, her rejection of imperialist wealth, and her compassion for the plight of the Hispanic worker.”

Behind Angela, Jonathan pushed a microphone away from his face. “Ms. Harper was accompanied by Jonathan Kahn, editor of the left-wing
San Diego Sentinel
, where Camilla Randall is employed. Mr. Kahn refuses to comment on the fact that it was an investigation by his own newspaper that led to Ms. Randall’s arrest.”

Jonathan pushed the microphone away again as he turned to say something to the small, purple-clad figure that clung to his arm.

“However,” the woman continued. “In a
Sentinel
editorial earlier this week, Kahn accused the Federal Government of involvement in Jon-Don Parker’s death, and stated that Ms. Randall is ‘guilty of nothing more that engaging in a little recreational sex with another woman’s boyfriend’.”

Camilla seized a pair of red satin lips and hurled them at the television.

“Recreational sex? You bastard!” She threw another pillow—and another—until there were no more red lips on the couch.

“Those pillows are pretty dreadful, aren’t they?”

Plantagenet had materialized in the doorway.

She threw her arms around him, wishing he could undo the horrors she’d just seen on the TV. She jumped back when she felt something cold on her back.

“Champagne,” Plant said, setting a bottle of frosty Andre Brut on the red coffee table. He also had a bag of what smelled like hot dogs. “The very best Seven-Eleven had to offer.” He put his arms around her again.

“What’s the matter, darling?” he said.

She shuddered and pointed at the television. “Recreational sex,” she hissed. “That’s what he said on the news—that I had recreational sex with Jon-Don Parker.”

Plantagenet walked to the television and slammed the “off” button.

“Jonathan Kahn should have been strangled at birth.” He led her back to the couch and smoothed her hair from her face. He kissed her on each damp eyelid and then, very gently, on the mouth.

“How do you know it was Jonathan Kahn who said that?” she said after a moment. “You weren’t watching the news.”

Plantagenet coughed. “No. But I’m afraid that editorial of his has been bouncing around the media for days. Angela is furious. He hasn’t got the slightest proof about that FBI nonsense, and—darling?” He looked at her with deep concern. “I want you to promise you won’t turn on the TV again. Listen to the stereo instead. It looks as if Franny has every Broadway musical ever recorded.” He bent over the record collection as if he were studying it, but instead, he pulled the television plug from the wall. “Just in case you forget, darling,” he said.

“I just wanted to watch
Love Boat
.” She felt like a scolded child. But she was glad to hear that Angela was furious with Jonathan, even if it was for the wrong reasons.

“You shouldn’t watch that stuff,” Plantagenet said. “It rots your teeth.” He emerged from the kitchen with two champagne flutes and two Mikasa plates. “At least Franny has a few necessities.” He placed a hot dog on each plate and garnished each with a container of French fries.  “Madame, dinner is served.”

It might possibly have been the best hot dog and fries she had ever eaten.

“That’s quite a robe,” Plantagenet said, after they’d scarfed most of their meal. “A little number of Franny’s?”

She followed his gaze to see that the robe had fallen open nearly to her waist.

“I found it in the closet,” she said, holding the robe closed with one hand while she accepted a refill of her champagne glass with the other. “I hope Franny doesn’t mind. He’s awfully nice to let us stay here, isn’t he?”

“I don’t know what we would have done without him. Those bloodthirsty reporters have besieged my apartment in West Hollywood ever since I moved in last Wednesday.”

“You rented an apartment in West Hollywood?” She licked mustard and relish from her fingers. So Plant had moved out of Angela’s house. A good sign.

“Just a sublet little
pied a terre
,” Plant said. “It belongs to a cameraman who’s still working on that awful film in Samoa. I need a place here for the next few months, and he can use somebody to carry the rent for a while. It’s convenient to everything. Even your intrepid young public defender lives nearby.”

So were they engaged or what? She hesitated as she framed her question.

“There was something else on the news….”

“Darling, please don’t think about it any more.”

“Not about—the Jon-Don Parker mess.” She took a gulp of champagne and avoided his eyes. “They kept calling me your ‘fiancé’. Mr. Jones did, too.”

“Mr. Jones? Oh, yes, Glen.” Plant gave a cocktail-party laugh. “Yes. I think I did tell him you and I were engaged—just to avoid long explanations. I’m not sure how the press got hold of it, but reporters are a sneaky lot, aren’t they?” He paused for a moment and smiled at her as he munched a fry. “Present company excluded, of course. But why you want to be one of those bottom feeders I can’t imagine. I hope this little episode has cured you of that?”

“I was a journalism major,” she said, irritated now.

“You’re angry that I called you my fiancé? I’m sorry, darling. I know I shouldn’t have. Maybe I lied partly because I wanted so much for it to be true.”

She looked into his eyes and saw a sadness that made her want to cry.

“I need you so much, Plant,” she whispered as she threw her arms around him.

He hugged her tightly.

“I love you, Camilla. More than I can say.” He gave her a warm kiss.

She kissed him back with passion: first on his wonderful, smooth neck, then his cheek, then on his full, sensuous lips. She clung to him, drinking him in, knowing that he was her real, true friend and her only hope. His lips released hers and moved down her neck. Her body welled with a longing she could hardly control.

Then she murmured—

“Oh, Jonathan!”

Chapter 26—Life in Aspic