Randall #01 - The Best Revenge (26 page)

Chapter 28—A Chocolate Pudding Attack

On the day before her preliminary hearing, Camilla stared into her refrigerator and fantasized about chocolate pudding.

Plant hadn’t called all day. She hadn’t seen him since early in the week, when he had arrived at midnight with steaks and amaretto cheesecake. He had promised to bring dinner again tonight, but his work at the two theaters kept him awfully busy.

Endless containers of yogurt no longer looked like food to her, and the remainder of the cheesecake was unappetizingly squashed in plastic wrap. Leftover tuna salad, smelling like rejected cat food, made her gag. She slammed the door and listened to her stomach growl. Why hadn’t she asked Plantagenet to buy some pudding mix?

She knew what she had to do. The Seven-Eleven was only a few blocks away.

In Franny’s closet, she searched for a suit, choosing one in mauve linen with very narrow lapels. She found a gray silk shirt to go with it, and a lavender knit tie. The pants were snug, and the sleeves way too long, but they could be fashionably pushed up, and the outfit would do. Franny’s shoes were big, but she found a pair of old wingtips that would stay on her feet with three pairs of socks. After pinning up her hair, she donned a vintage Panama hat and looked in the mirror. Not bad. She could be a young man heading for any gay bar in Venice.

She couldn’t lock the door from the outside, since Plantagenet had the only key, but she wouldn’t be gone long. She grabbed a five-dollar bill from her purse, stuffed it in the jacket pocket and boldly walked out into the sunny afternoon.

~

The clerk at the store ignored her, as had the few people on the street. Nobody looked twice at one more young man in a mauve suit. She was surprised to see the store decorated for Christmas. The snowmen and Santa Clauses looked incongruous with the palm trees outside. Shiny red and green garlands, decorated with plastic pinecones, tacky as they were, brought a sudden lump to her throat.

Christmas. Only a few weeks away. The thought brought a flood of loneliness. She ducked behind a display of fruitcakes to compose herself. Last Christmas had been so normal, with her mother fussing over her reception for the Prince of Wales, and her dad, grim-faced, trying to keep secret the indoor pool he was putting into the Manhattan brownstone.

It had been only a few days later that their entire world collapsed.

No. she was not going to have these thoughts. She was going to buy pudding mix. The kind you cook. And a quart of milk.

As she approached the counter with her purchases, the clerk, a pale, pimply teenaged boy, was having trouble finding the right pack of cigarettes for a large man in a plaid jacket.

“I said Camels,” the man said. “Just plain Camels. No filter. No nothing. You know—Camel—like the chick that offed Jon-Don Parker.”

The boy handed him the cigarettes with a chuckle.

She was that infamous. No wonder Plant wanted her to stay hidden away. Slipping behind the magazine rack, she tried to hide her face in a
People
magazine.

A wholesome looking brunette smiled toothily from the magazine cover. Camilla sighed. She’d only been away from things for a month, but already she didn’t know the current celebrities. Then she read the words on the cover:

“TRUE: A VALLEY GIRL GONE WRONG—Was Camel Randall responsible for her drug addiction?”

Camilla had to stifle a shriek as she flipped through the magazine. How could they print anything so stupid?

“Hey, buddy, are you going to buy that or what? This ain’t the library.” The pimply boy said. The plaid jacket man was gone.

“Sure.” She tried to make her voice sound husky. She took the magazine, along with milk and pudding mix, to the counter and gave the boy her five-dollar bill.

“Kind of dorky-looking isn’t she?” the boy said as he rang up the sale.

“Ah—who?” Camilla pulled the hat over her eyes.

“This chick, True,” the boy said, looking at the
People
. “You know—Marie Osmond type. Now that Camel—that’s a bitchin’ piece of ass.”

“You think so?”

Camilla wondered if she should take off without her change.

“Bitchin’.” The boy snapped his gum as he flipped through the pages of the magazine. He showed her a full-page color photo. She tried to keep her face frozen as she was confronted with her own image, dressed in a jet-beaded Porfirio gown with a neckline that plunged nearly to the waist. Porfirio. What a bastard! Her mother had refused to buy the gown until “something was done about the neckline,” but Porfirio snapped the photo, “just for fun.”

She mumbled at the boy, “Yeah. I guess she’s OK.”

“Right. Not your type, I guess, sweetie.” The boy gave her a hostile half-smile as he bagged her purchases.

She grabbed the bag and headed for the door. Outside, she tried to run. But the wingtips clomping like clown shoes forced her to slow down. When she reached the pathway that led to the little house, she felt genuinely happy to return to her over-decorated little cell. She shut the door behind her, leaning back to catch her breath and close her eyes, finally letting herself relax.

“Hello” said a familiar voice. From inside the house.

Jonathan Kahn’s voice.

There he was: sitting in the red and black polka-dot chair.

“Camilla?” He closed a notebook he’d been writing in. “That is you under there, isn’t it?”

“I’m—traveling incognito.” She tried to laugh as she removed the hat and pulled the pins out of her hair.

“So I see.” He put the notebook into the briefcase at his feet. His eyes were very blue as he smiled at her. His dimples were still adorable.

“You’re not welcome here, Mr. Kahn.” She fought the effects of his smile. “I thought I made that clear to Julie. She promised she wouldn’t give anyone this address.”

“And Julie is a woman of her word. But I can’t say the same for your friend Bernadette. She gets very talkative after three pitchers of beer.”

“Then you wasted your beer, Mr. Kahn.”

Anger choked Camilla’s voice as she marched over to him. “Because you’re going to leave. Now. I explained to Julie that I will not communicate with the
Sentinel
concerning anything but Dr. Lavinia’s column.”

“I am here concerning your column, Dr. Lavinia.” He pulled some legal-looking papers from his briefcase.

“What’s this?” she was too shaken by his presence to decipher the words.

“A contract. For the syndication of your column. In the back are copies of some of the offers we’ve already had. As you can see, there are some pretty impressive publications there. But we need to get on it right away, which is why I couldn’t wait for the mail. I don’t know about you, but the
Sentinel
could really use some extra income right now. I’m buying Angela out.”

Camilla sat on the couch, clutching the papers, as she tried to make sense out of what Jonathan was saying.

“I’d be published in all these papers, but I’d still be working for the
Sentinel
?”

“Exactly. We take a percentage. Before you scream that’s unfair, remember we invented you. Plus, we’ll handle the paperwork, and keep your identity secret.”

She looked up from the papers. Jonathan was studying her. She wondered if he was waiting for her to weaken and bring up the subject of her coming trial.

“Of course.” She returned her attention to the contract. It seemed to be exactly what he said. Dr. Lavinia, along with the owner of the
Sentinel
, was about to make some money. She was dazzled by some of the publications listed.

“I—I don’t have a pen,” she said when she had finally waded through the pages of legal jargon. “I think I have one in my purse.”

“Please use mine.” Jonathan’s dimples showed again as he grinned. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and stood up slowly, reaching at the same time for the cane hooked over the arm of the chair. She hadn’t noticed the cane. He limped to where she sat. His ankle was no longer in a cast, but she could see that it was still bandaged.

She accepted the pen, spread the contract on the coffee table, and signed it in the three places indicated.

“Congratulations, Dr. Lavinia,” Jonathan said, still grinning. “You have just become a syndicated columnist.” He picked up the contract and handed her one of the copies. “And incidentally, you have saved a newspaper.” He extended his hand. “Thank you, Camilla. I can’t tell you how important this is to me.”

She took his hand. His expression was warm and sincere. Impulsively, she threw her arms around him in a friendly hug.

“It’s important to me, too, Jonathan. Thank you.”

But when she pulled back to look at his face, his smile was gone. His eyes stared into hers with an intensity that was almost frightening. His mouth was very close.

Their lips met with a violence that sent a shock through her whole body. She heard his cane clatter to the floor as his arms tightened around her. She clung to him like a person drowning. He still wanted her. She had to tell him she felt the same way.

“Please stay, Jonathan,” she whispered into the soft corduroy of his jacket.

He stepped back and smiled.

“Thanks for the offer. It’s nice to know I’ve been granted a second chance, but—some other time, OK? There are a few other things I need to talk to you about, and then I’ve got a meeting in San Diego at—”

“What other things?” She tried to sound casual as her face burned.

“Bob interviewed a man named James Rodriguez.” Jonathan reached for his notebook. “He had some surprising things to say about what went on at your party the night Parker died, and I hope you’ll be willing to clear up a couple of points.”

Her eyes burned with angry tears. That’s all he wanted her for—a damned story.

“You slug! You sleazy bastard! How could you?”

“How could I what? Turn you down?” He stood very still—all icy cool as he glanced at his notebook. “Not that it’s easy, Camilla. But I do have some instinct for self-preservation. Besides, right now, this is what’s important.”

She couldn’t stand to look at him.

“Right now, what’s important is that you get out of this house. Out!” She grabbed the notebook and threw it toward the door.

Balancing on his cane, Jonathan picked up the notebook and smoothed the pages with deliberate calm. His eyes were cold as his mouth curved into a mocking smile.

“Ms. Randall,” he said. “I happen to know that you are capable of rational thought. Do you think you could drop the bitch-in-heat act long enough to demonstrate that? There are worse things than not having every man you want. Like spending the rest of your life in prison.”

The words stung as if he’d hit her.

Before she could stop herself, she slapped him with such force that she winced with pain as her hand made impact with his cheekbone. But his expression didn’t even change. In blind fury, she swung again, but he immobilized her wrist in a painful grip. She tried to pull away, but his other hand grabbed her shoulder. She screamed as his fingers dig into her flesh.

“Let me go, you slug. Let go!” She kicked at him in blind fury.

With a gasp of pain, he released her and reached for his bandaged leg. But as he moved, he lost his balance and fell. His head made a noise as it hit the coffee table.

“All right, Kahn. That’s enough,” said a voice. Camilla looked up to see Plantagenet standing in the doorway. Beside him was D. Glendower Jones.

Mr. Jones was holding a gun.

“Darling, are you all right?” Plantagenet ran to her.

“She’s just fine.” Jonathan sat up slowly, holding a hand to the side of his face. “I’m the one who’s injured. That woman could hold her own against a Soviet tank.”

He reached for his cane and struggled to his feet. Blood trickled down his face. “Mr. Jones, would you put that thing away? Guns scare the hell out of me.”

“See if she’s all right, Plant.” Glen Jones didn’t take his eyes off Jonathan.

Plantagenet hugged her. “Darling, did he hurt you? Did he—do anything to you?”

She shook her head.

“Did I assault her, sexually or otherwise?” Jonathan pivoted on his cane to face them. “No. Quite the contrary, wouldn’t you say, Ms. Randall? Now if you’ll just hand me my things, I’ll make my escape. Thank you for rescuing me, gentlemen.”