Randall #01 - The Best Revenge (25 page)

Camilla woke in red satin sheets. They felt slimy, and the color looked worse in daylight than it had last night when Plantagenet tucked her into them. But the mattress of the foldout couch was comfortable, and she couldn’t complain.

She wasn’t in jail.

And she was in love.

At least, she was fairly certain she was in love. Plantagenet had been so wonderful; it would be hard not to love him. He waited all those hours for her yesterday, and was so brave escaping the horrible reporters, and last night he didn’t even pressure her to invite him to spend the night. He saw how tired she was, and gently put her to bed. He didn’t even mind when she called him the wrong name by mistake. Or maybe he never heard it. She hoped he hadn’t. She didn’t want him to know about what went on between her and Jonathan.

After all, she herself didn’t know what went on between her and Jonathan, and whatever it might have been, it was all over now, and she was in love with Plantagenet. He was much more like his old self now, and besides, he was in love with her.

She sighed as she propped herself up on a pile of red satin lips. Liza Minelli grinned from the wall. She stuck out her tongue at her.

She heard the sound of footsteps on the path outside, and the jingle of keys. The door opened and Plantagenet stood in the doorway with a grocery bag in each arm.

“What’s this, sailor, still asleep?” He plopped the groceries on the kitchen table. “It’s almost noon. The costumes are safely back at the theater, and Franny wants me to remind you about the dieffenbachia.”

He sat on the edge of the mattress and kissed her lightly.

“I’m glad you got some sleep. Your cheeks are pink again.”

She looked into his clear, gray eyes and smiled. “What about you, Plantagenet Smith?” she said in a mock-motherly tone. “Did you go straight home and get your rest?”

“Yes, Camilla Randall. I did.” He picked up her hand and kissed it. “Are we being formal this morning? I’m sorry I forgot my tux.”

She stroked the shoulder of his blue lamb’s wool sweater and said, “I just felt like saying your name. And you don’t need a tux. You look wonderful, Plantagenet.”

“Oh, good,” he said, standing again. “Do say it. Practice it. Plan-ta-ge-net. Rather memorable, some people think. Now tell me, how would you like your eggs?”

“What do you mean?” she said.

“Eggs: scrambled, fried, poached, boiled, shirred, Benedict, curried, in aspic—?”

“I meant about your name…?” She stopped herself mid-sentence, realizing she did not want to have this conversation. “Do you really know how to make eggs in aspic?”

Too late. “My name. Ah, yes—my name.” He returned to the kitchen area and started unpacking groceries. “It’s not Jonathan. It’s either Plantagenet or, if you want to annoy me, John. Last night you called me ‘Jonathan’.”

“Are you—sure?” She sank into the red sheets, feeling the heat in her cheeks.

“Quite sure. And I found it a bit disturbing. Would you like to give me a plausible reason why I shouldn’t?”

“Maybe it slipped out because I’d just seen Mr. Kahn on the TV News.” She scrambled to change the subject. “I had quail eggs in aspic once—very strange—little naked eggs suspended in a kind of nasty, sour Jell-O.”

“I said ‘plausible’,” Plant went on, seemingly determined to avoid the aspic question. “For instance, you could tell me you were in love with a boy named Jonathan when you were a child, or maybe had a pet seagull?”

“But that wouldn’t be true.”

“What is true, Camilla? That you’re sleeping with your boss?”

She slid further under the sheets. “What makes you say that?”

“Because he’s the only Jonathan I know of with that name in your immediate circle of acquaintances. I know you were attracted when you first met him. I practically had to hold you down, as I remember. So you got him?”

She wanted to throw something.

“That’s a terrible thing to say! It wasn’t like that at all. I’ve never slept with him. Well, maybe I slept in his bed, but that was just because I drank too much of his Jack Daniels and I didn’t quite know how to say no—politely.”

Plantagenet’s face went strange and dark.

“That slimeball got you drunk and forced you?” He grabbed her shoulders and nearly pulled her from the bed.

“Of course not. He’s not like that. He couldn’t have, anyway. He had a broken ankle. He was on crutches. And he’d just been mugged.”

She adjusted the sash of the satin robe, which she seemed to have slept in.

“Sounds like quite the dashing hero.” Plant let go of her shoulders.

“The broken ankle wasn’t his fault. Bob knocked him down the stairs.”

“I see. And who’s Bob? Another gentleman you were too polite to say ‘no’ to?”

She sat on the edge of the bed, hoping she looked decent.

“You’re a fine one to talk! I suppose Angela Harper forced you?”

“Of course not, darling.” He gave a thin smile. “We just indulged in some ‘recreational sex’. As you obviously did with Mr. Kahn. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing at all. You’ve had your flings and I’ve had mine. It was naïve of me to think that you hadn’t. It’s just that—damn it—how can you be so self-righteous about my relationship with Angela when you’ve been screwing that—cockroach?”

“Jonathan is not a cockroach.”

A fickle bastard, maybe, but not an insect.

“How can you defend him? Don’t you know that he, more than anyone else, is responsible for this mess you’re in? He invented all those crazy stories about a mythical drug dealer named ‘Camel’—just to sell newspapers, I’m sure.  That was bad enough, but when you showed up with the same nickname, he let you fall right into the trap.”

“It’s not like that.” How was she going to explain?

“Maybe he had it planned all along. Have you thought of that? He certainly had a motive for revenge. After all, you did destroy the man’s career, darling.”

She turned away and hid her face in the satin lips, trying to shut out Plant’s words.

“You don’t know what a ruthless man he is, Camilla. He never does anything without a motive. I’m sure he seduced you because you once moved in circles where you might have met Jon-Don Parker, and he figured you might be good for a juicy tidbit or two. When you didn’t give him any, he made up that story about a witness who saw you and Jon-Don sneak off to your bedroom during a party. It was a minor detail—not enough to go to court over—just enough to sell a lot of papers—and get back at the woman who tried to ruin him.”

“No, Plant.” She stood up and faced him. “That’s not true. None of it is. Jonathan didn’t seduce me. And he didn’t make up that story. Jon-Don did go to my bedroom. It was the only place in the house to sit down.”

Plantagenet’s face went white. “You screwed Jon-Don Parker?”

“Don’t talk like that. I just snorted a little cocaine with him.”

Plantagenet stood up so fast the bed bounced.

“You took drugs with Jon-Don Parker? On the night he died of an overdose?”

“It’s not as if I knew he was going to die! I only took the cocaine so I could avoid having sex with him. I never told him I wanted to have sex, but he just assumed—”

“Assumed? Of course he assumed, you little idiot! When you accept a man’s drugs, he generally assumes.”

She was angry now.

“It wasn’t his cocaine. I gave it to him, OK?”

Plantagenet stared hard into her face. “Good God! It’s all true?”

“What?” she turned away. His eyes were too scary.

“That you’ve been selling drugs? You gave Jon-Don the drugs that killed him?”

“Of course not. I don’t like you when act this way. I’m going to make some coffee.”

She started toward the kitchen.

“Oh, no you’re not.” Plant’s hand clamped on her arm. “Not until you tell me how you got the coke, and how much there was, and—everything, Camilla. I want to know everything. I’ve been operating on a pure, blind faith in your innocence. How much of a fool have I been?”

“You’re not a fool, but you are a bully.” She tried to free her arm. “There’s nothing to tell. I got the cocaine from Wave, who got it from Jennifer, who got it from one of her boyfriends—Mike. Who maybe got it from Tooter. And there was just a little.”

“Less than a gram?”

“I don’t know. How much is a gram?”

“A gram is about—Camilla, how often do you use coke?”

“I don’t! I only had it that one time. I didn’t want Wave and Jennifer to keep calling me a wimp.”

She wanted him to go away. She also wished she had some clothes to put on.

Plantagenet let go of her arm and gave a nasty laugh. “Darling, people all over the world are calling you names at the moment, but wimp is not one of them. Who are Mike and Tooter anyway? Why haven’t I heard about them? Have you told Glen?”

“Glen?”

“D. Glendower Jones. Your lawyer.”

“Yes, but I’m not sure he believes me.”

Plantagenet walked toward the door.

“Where are you going?”

“To call Angela. She needs to know all this.”

“No. I can’t stand it if Angela knows—”

“I’m afraid she has to. After all, she has risked her reputation for you.”

“Oh, good, let’s all worry about Angela’s reputation!” Camilla escaped to the bathroom and slammed the door. She turned on the shower full force and stepped in, wishing she could wash away the last few minutes. She couldn’t bear it if Plantagenet didn’t believe her. As she lathered her hair with Franny’s Aramis shampoo, she wondered if what Plantagenet said was true—that Jonathan let her keep her job out of some need for revenge. Wasn’t there anybody she could trust?

She thought of the package of letters to Dr. Lavinia that still sat, unopened, next to the magazines and make-up from her mother. She hoped Plant hadn’t seen them. She didn’t know if she wanted to keep working for Jonathan, but if she decided to, she’d have to keep the work a secret. Plant would misinterpret everything.

~

She was drying her hair with Franny’s blow dryer when Plant knocked on the door of the bathroom. She opened it and tried to smile.

He handed her a steaming cup of coffee that smelled of roasted hazelnuts.

“So. Did you talk to Angela?” she said.

“Yes. Glen, too. I have an appointment to see him this afternoon. And you might like to know that Angela’s finally had it with your friend Jonathan.”

“So what’s he done now?”

“Among other things—” Plant cleared his throat and gave a smile that was just short of a gloat. “Your pal Kahn has just been picked up by the FBI.”

Chapter 27—Footsteps in the Dark

Camilla sat on the black couch wearing a purple kimono and some uncomfortably tight jeans, the loosest pair in Franny’s closet. She flipped through the pages of the November
Vogue
for the tenth time. She loathed the scrawny, nasty-faced women who glared at her from the photographs, and she was feeling hostile toward the telephone, which would not ring, and Barbra Streisand, who was singing from the stereo about people needing people, and she was developing a strong dislike for Liza Minelli in her red dress—also dying dieffenbachia, red satin pillows, and polka dots.

Plus, at this very moment, she was having distinctly negative feelings about Plantagenet Smith.

He had forbidden her to leave the house. He was ridiculously paranoid to imagine some stranger might recognize her in the street, but she obeyed the order anyway. She also obeyed his order not to plug in the television, although she would have liked to hear some more news about Jonathan and the FBI. But Plant was right that hearing TV lies about her would be upsetting.

However, it also made her angry that in the three days since she’d been released from jail, Plantagenet had spent only a few hours with her. Today he hadn’t even called. She glared furiously at the telephone. Finally she decided it was safe to walk outside and check Franny’s mailbox.

She made the trip to the end of the path and found the box empty. When she returned, she spent several moments staring at the contents of the refrigerator until she realized she was not at all hungry. Finally, she slammed the door shut and once more perused Franny’s one shelf of books. She was trying to choose between
The American
Musical Theater
and
A History of Costume
when she realized she had only one sensible course of action.

After peeking through the curtains to make sure that Plantagenet wasn’t walking down the path, she took Jonathan’s box from the closet shelf. And behind it, like some gift from the gods, she found, covered with dust, an old manual typewriter with the name “Frank Callahan” scratched on the side.  Now Dr. Lavinia wouldn’t have to write longhand. She set up the machine on the table and went to work.

~

It was almost dark outside when she heard the sound of footsteps on the path. She yanked a completed letter from the typewriter, pushed it, with the rest of her work, under a stack of typing paper, rolled in a new sheet and wrote: “She was startled by the sound of footsteps in the dark.” She arranged herself in a pensive pose at the typewriter while composing a lovely lie to tell Plant about writing a mystery novel.

But she was surprised to hear the person outside knock, instead of coming right in. She hoped Plant hadn’t lost Franny’s one key.

But it wasn’t Plantagenet who stood in the doorway. It was a large, red-haired woman wearing overalls. She carried two familiar Vuitton suitcases.

“Hya Randy!” the redhead said in a booming voice. “Where do you want ’em?”

Camilla gratefully accepted the luggage and tried to remember where she had seen the woman before.

“Mr. Smith said to tell you he’ll bring more of your stuff later,” the woman said. “This is all I could fit in my car. I had to leave room for the props I’m borrowing from the L.A. Rep.”

“Props?”

“Plastic flamingos, mostly. Hey, have you got a beer? This L.A. traffic makes me hyper as hell.”

“Bernie. The “F” Street Theater!” Camilla blurted as she remembered. “Sorry. No beer. How about champagne?”

“Twist my arm.” Bernie flopped onto the couch and surveyed the room. “So—now we find Camel Randall, international playgirl, who, disguised as a mild-mannered reporter…”

Camilla stiffened as she poured herself champagne.

Bernie laughed heartily at her own joke. “Oh, before I forget, Julie wanted me to give you this.” She took a fat envelope from a pocket of her overalls.

“Julie? Does Julie know where I am?”

Did Jonathan? This could be awful.

“Nope. Nobody does. Mr. Smith is being real careful about that. In fact, he made me promise to go to the theater first and then here in case somebody followed me from San Diego. Just call me double-0-seven.” She gulped champagne. “He was totally hush-hush about asking me to come here. He cornered me alone in the prop room when everybody else was on stage. I even thought for a minute maybe he wanted something else. No such luck. Of course, he didn’t know that you and I are old buddies.”

Camilla ignored the presumptuous remark. “Did you tell him? That you and I—know each other?”

“There wasn’t time. Besides, I wasn’t sure. That’s why I called Julie—to find out if her reporter friend Randy was the Camel Randall on TV, because you sure look alike.”

“And you told her you were going to see me?”

“Of course not. Mr. Smith practically made me swear on the lives of my unborn children. And he paid me fifty bucks. Besides, I wouldn’t mouth off about something like this.” She drained her champagne glass and reached for the bottle. “Julie figured it out by herself. She’s one smart cookie. I guess I haven’t kept it a secret that I’ve had kind of a crush on Plantagenet Smith—sorry, I didn’t know he was taken when I met him. I heard he’d broken up with Angela, and…”

“No problem.” Camilla gave a smile, trying to hurry up the monologue.

“Anyway, I guess I said something to Julie about how pissed off I was that I had to go to L.A. today and miss seeing Mr. Smith, and then today, when I called and said I had seen the gorgeous Mr. Smith after all, and then I happened to ask if Camel Randall was the same person as her friend Randy, and the next thing I know, there she is at the theater, saying if by any chance I should happen to see you, I should give you the letter.”

She grabbed the bottle and gestured with it.

“So aren’t you going to open it?”

Camilla picked it up. “Did Julie say anything about—Mr. Kahn?”

“Old Genghis? Not that I remember, why?”

“No reason.” She wondered if the news wasn’t out about Jonathan and the FBI.

Inside the envelope she found a pile of letters for Dr. Lavinia, and a note scribbled in Julie’s handwriting:

“I hope you don’t mind that I saw through Bernie. Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul. But we really need Dr. Lavinia! If you have any columns ready, just mail them to me at my home address. We can pretend I’m writing them, if you want. Is there any place where I can safely send Dr. Lavinia’s mail? (And your paycheck!) Let me know if there’s anything I can do. Hang in there!”

An address and phone number followed. Camilla wondered who “we” referred to. Did it mean Jonathan was OK, and not in FBI custody?

“Does Plantagenet know that Julie gave this to you?”

“No way. She’s all into the James Bond thing, too.” Bernie emptied the rest of the champagne into her glass. “Can I ask you something, Randy—or should I say Camel?”

“‘Camilla’, actually, is what you should say.” She never wanted to hear that nickname again.

“What I want to know is—what was Jon-Don like in bed?”

Camilla froze her face into a smile.

“Thanks so much for bringing my things, Bernie.” She walked deliberately to the front door and held it open.

“Sorry. Just had to ask,” Bernie drained her glass. “With what they’re saying about you two on TV—Oh, I forgot, I’m not supposed to talk to you about that stuff. Oh, yeah, and I’m supposed to tell you that Mr. Smith won’t be here tonight. He had to stay for the rehearsal down in San Diego. But he’ll call you in the morning.”

“Will he?” Camilla wondered for a moment if Angela would be there too, then decided she didn’t want to let her brain think about that. “Thank you, Bernie.”

She closed the door with more force than she probably needed, then picked up the letter and dialed the phone. Actually, it was good that Plantagenet was safely in San Diego. He had strictly forbidden her to call anybody.

“Julie, this is—Dr. Lavinia,” she said to the tired voice that answered.

“Randy! Am I ever glad to hear from you! Are you OK?”

“I’m fine, I guess.” Camilla suddenly wanted to pour out her troubles to the friendly, concerned voice. “Sort of lonely and bored, though. I miss everybody. My fiancé doesn’t think I should talk to anybody, so my words won’t get twisted up by some reporter. In fact, I shouldn’t even be talking to you, but I got your note…”

Julie laughed. “Poor Bernie. She was trying to be such a good spy. But don’t worry. I’m sure no one else knows. In fact, one of the TV stations just broadcast some grainy video of somebody who looks like you in St Tropez. Mr. Kahn will be relieved to hear you called.”

“Jonathan—Mr. Kahn, is he all right?”

“Sure. He’s fine except that Angela is selling the paper, the FBI is harassing him, and Health-O-Mart has just pulled its Christmas advertising. But actually, I think he’s enjoying it. He thrives on crisis.”

“I heard he was arrested by the FBI?”

“Not arrested. But they want him to stop investigating the Camel—uh, Jon-Don Parker story.”

There was an awkward silence.

Julie continued after a moment. “You wouldn’t believe how many letters and calls we’re getting from ‘Living Well’ fans. ‘When is Dr. Lavinia going to be back in business? You are going to keep writing, aren’t you?’ Everyone here is sworn to secrecy, so nobody has to know. It might help you keep your mind off—things.”

Camilla couldn’t help feeling pleased.

“The Doctor is back. I’ve already got some columns to mail and I’ll have more by the end of the week. You can send the questions to, um, a friend of mine: Fran—uh—Frank Callahan.” She gave the address. “He’ll forward the mail to me.”

“Great! I’ll send everything on Thursday, along with your paycheck, and probably some stuff from Mr. Kahn. He’ll be so relieved. He really needs to talk to you. See, he found this witness who says that Jon-Don was…”

“Jonathan wants to interview me about Jon-Don?”

Camilla shuddered. She should have listened to Plant. Was this Dr. Lavinia stuff just Jonathan’s ploy to get her to give an interview?

“Dr. Lavinia is only accepting communications that concern her column. Nothing else. Is that quite clear?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“And no one is to have that address I gave you. That includes Mr. Kahn.”

“I promise to guard it with my life. Randy, I’m really sorry—”

“Goodbye, Julie.”

Jonathan was a sleaze. But Dr. Lavinia had a job. She would do it—Jonathan or no Jonathan. She took the stack of letters from the envelope Bernie brought, and returned to work.