Randall #01 - The Best Revenge (27 page)

When he had limped nearly to the doorway, Jonathan turned back to her.

“Julie will be expecting to hear from you by the end of the week, Ms. Randall.”

He closed the door and was gone.

Chapter 29—Pink Mink and Other Disasters

The preliminary hearing turned out to be pretty much of a disaster. Even the icky
People
article hadn’t given Camilla an idea of how far fetched and stupid True’s lies would be. None of it was remotely connected to reality. The whole thing was more like the Mad Hatter’s tea party than anything Camilla had ever seen on
Perry Mason.

She’d hoped Mr. Jones would explain what was going on when the ordeal was over, but he dashed out of the courtroom, avoiding her eyes. Plantagenet barely spoke to her either. He was completely silent during the whole terrifying, media-escaping trip back to Venice. He drove like some crazed drunk, making demented U-turns and reaching lunatic speeds even after the last reporter’s car had been left in the dust.

When they finally got home, Plant stood in the doorway of the little house, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Camilla kicked off her pumps, untied the bow on her blouse, and tried to think of the right words to say to make him stay and talk.

“I’d better get something for dinner,” he said. “Anything special you’d like?”

“Don’t go right now, please? If you’re hungry, there’s some chocolate pudding.”

“Chocolate pudding?” He stepped past her and sat heavily in the polka-dot chair. “That has to be the most loathsome foodstuff ever invented. It looks like—in the interest of good taste, I will not say what it looks like—but it has all the flavor and texture of library paste.”

Camilla giggled. “Did you used to eat that, too—when you were little? That white paste?” She sat on the end of the couch closest to him and smiled.

His eyes studied hers for a moment. He didn’t smile back. When he spoke, his voice sputtered with anger.

“Camilla, do you have the slightest notion of how much trouble you’re in? Do you understand what went on in that courtroom today?”

She sighed. She wanted a discussion, not a scene.

“It was pretty bad, wasn’t it? Who would have thought that True would turn out to be little Trudy Goldblatt, the daughter of an Orange County judge? Or that she’d look so young without the purple hair and Halloween make-up?”

“Who would have thought?” Plantagenet’s voice got way too loud. “Did you really believe, Camilla, that because that little girl was a drug addict that no one would pay attention to what she had to say? Did you think you could get away with it?”

“Get away with what? What are you talking about?” She did not need this from him, of all people.

“I’m talking about the way you’ve lied. Lied to me. Lied to Glen. Do you know how stupid it is to lie to your own lawyer? You made him look like a fool. Did you imagine that no one would find out that you’d been seeing Jon-Don Parker for weeks before he died? And that you were at his house just hours before he got that fatal injection?”

This was too ridiculous. How could he believe that?

“But none of that ever happened! I’m not lying—she is! I don’t know why, but she made it all up.”

“I see.” Plant’s voice was like ice. “And the pink mink bomber jacket? The one with your initials embroidered in the lining? Did she invent that, too? And the police officers who found it at Parker’s house? I suppose they were all indulging in a mass flight of fancy? That is your jacket, Camilla. I’ve seen you wear it.”

She tried to form a reasonable answer, but there was none.

“It is yours, isn’t it?” Plantagenet’s face was close to hers, very red.

“Yes,” she managed to whisper. “But I lost it. I haven’t seen it in ages. Maybe she took it from my house on the night of the party…?”

“She found it two weeks before the party, and that’s why she followed Parker to San Diego—to find out who he’d been seeing. Followed him to your house, Camilla. Two weeks before the party.”

Plant leaned back in the chair, but his body was tense.

“Oh, but I forgot. She’s making all that up. Wonderful imagination that child has. And the coroner, too. He’s very creative, isn’t he, with his story about finding those long blonde hairs on Parker’s body? Tangled up in Jon-Don’s pubic hair, for God’s sake! Oh, Jesus, Camilla.” He covered his eyes and turned his face away.

She touched his shoulder, wanting to comfort him.

“It wasn’t my hair. It couldn’t have been. I only kissed him once. And he had his clothes on. All of them. Please, I don’t understand any of this, but you’ve got to believe me. You know me better than anybody. Do you really believe I could be a murderer?”

 “I don’t know,” he said. His eyes were gray stones. “I have no idea. From what I saw the other day, with you and Jonathan Kahn, it’s obvious that you’re capable of a violence I never imagined. What was it Kahn said about you and Soviet tanks? Maybe he knows you better than I do.”

“Jonathan fell down and hit his head. He already had the broken ankle.”

“He just—fell down? Macho-man Jonathan Kahn, who survived the killing fields of Cambodia; lived with guerrilla fighters in Afghanistan; and fought death squads in Nicaragua, walked into your living room and—just fell over?”

“OK, maybe I tried to hit him because he was trying to trick me into giving him a story—but I missed. Really. I missed.”

She tried to take Plant’s hand, but his fingers had a death-grip on a red polka dot.

“Plant, don’t be like this. You’re the only friend I have. I can’t stand it if you won’t believe me.”

Slowly, he let her pick up his hand, but he continued to study her with a cold eye. “It would help if you’d tell me the truth,” he said.

“I have told you the truth. Everything I can remember. A million times. I never had sex with Jon-Don Parker. And I certainly didn’t kill him.” 

Plantagenet sat very still for a moment, searching her face.

“What about Kahn? Why was he here? What did he mean about somebody named Julie waiting to hear from you? I don’t know any Julie.”

“Julie is—” Camilla wondered if she should tell Plant about her column, but decided a new revelation of deceit would only make him angry again. “Julie’s a friend of mine from work—Mr. Kahn’s assistant. He said she missed me. I said I’d call her.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m lonely, that’s why! I’ve been cooped up here for weeks.”

“Why should that interest Jonathan Kahn?”

“How would I know? I don’t care what interests Jonathan Kahn.”

“I think you do, Camilla. I think you care very much.”

She escaped to the kitchen and looked into the refrigerator as if it held some kind of oracle. She wanted to tell him yes, she did care about Jonathan, but only as her editor. She wanted to put her arms around Plantagenet and tell him about Dr. Lavinia and the syndication contract, and make him be happy for her.

But she knew that in his present mood, Plant would turn it all into something awful—try to tell her the contract was bogus, or that Jonathan was playing a nasty trick. She took the bowl out of the refrigerator and began to fill a small glass dish with pudding. Maybe what Plant thought about Jonathan was true, but she didn’t care. Even if there wasn’t any point in continuing the column, she had to keep writing. It was all she had.

“Sure you don’t want any chocolate pudding?” She tried for a cheerful tone.

“Absolutely sure.”

There was silence for a moment—then the sound of the front door opening.

“Where are you going?” She ran after him, still clutching the chocolaty spoon. He turned back to her, his face stiff with rage.

“I am going to try to find Mr. D. Glendower Jones,” he said quietly. “I, at least, am interested in knowing whether you still have a lawyer.”

“Oh, dear,” she said, desperately searching for some comfort in his eyes. “Am I really in an awful mess?”

“Yes, Camilla. You are in an awful mess.”

Chapter 30—The Weather in Acapulco

On December thirtieth, Camilla was proofreading a column when she heard someone on the footpath outside. She stashed the pages in an envelope addressed to Julie and hid it under the typewriter. Rolling a page of “Footsteps in the Dark” into the machine, she added a sentence and x’ed it out in order to keep up the pretense of a mystery novel in progress.

So far, Plantagenet hadn’t shown much interest in her typewriting activities except to glance at the title page and harrumph. He once said something like: “Writing is a craft—we learn by doing, darling, so just keep at it,” which she took to be encouragement.

He seemed more interested in the health of the dieffenbachia—which was reviving under her care. Plant had been trying to be sweet since his temper tantrum on the awful day of the hearing. He seemed genuinely sorry that he’d been taken in by True’s lies, and he had stopped asking about Jonathan. Sometimes he treated her like a five-year-old, but that was better than accusing her of being a murderous drug dealer.

At Christmas, Plant had been wonderful, bringing her a pretty little tree decorated with tiny silver birds, plus a roast duck feast, a rented VCR with a lot of 1930’s
Thin Man
videos, and a lovely new watch. It was a nice Christmas, even though she felt uncomfortable because she couldn’t buy presents for him.

Now, as Plant opened the door, she could hear him talking to someone: Glen Jones. They both sounded cheery. She hoped that meant good news. Glen had been making a valiant effort to find Wave and Jennifer or anybody else who could help prove that True had been lying through her bratty capped teeth.

Witnesses had been hard to contact, since Wave’s family had sent her off to a finishing school in Switzerland, and Jennifer had utterly disappeared.

“Hello, darling.” Plant gave Camilla a quick hug.

Glen laughed as he clutched a folded newspaper.

“Listen to this one,” he said. He started to read out loud: “Dear Dr. Lavinia, my husband and I have not had sexual relations for seven years and—”

Camilla froze her face as she tried to meet Plantagenet’s smile.

“We’re reading ‘Living Well’,” Plantagenet said. “It’s a crazy advice column that just started in the
Times
. Written by some dotty old bird named Dr. Lavinia. Sort of “Dear Abby” written by one of the characters from
Arsenic and Old Lace
. You wouldn’t believe the weirdoes who write in.”

“Dotty?” Glen said. “Nothing dotty about her. The woman’s a comic genius. It’s all a goof. These letters are made up—can’t you tell? You don’t think ‘Abstracted in Albuquerque’ here is a real person, do you?”

“May I see it?” Camilla reached for the paper. It was the
L.A. Times
, all right, and there was one of the columns she had mailed to Julie, neatly printed in the “Life/Style” section, between a recipe for babaganoush and a reprint of an article on Donald and Ivana Trump by Sybil Diaz-Dreyfuss.

“Glen’s got fabulous news,” Plantagenet said. “We had a good report from the lab. There’s no way the hairs found on Jon-Don’s body can be yours. They were dyed. Whoever was giving Jon-Don head that night wasn’t a real blonde.”

“It wasn’t my hair! I told you!” Camilla hugged him triumphantly. “You have to believe me now! Everybody does. Don’t they?”

She looked from Plantagenet’s face to Glen’s for reassurance.

“It helps,” Plantagenet said. “I believe you, and so does Glen. But it’s going to take a more than a few hairs to convince a jury. We need witnesses.”

“What about Wave? Did you call Wave in Lucerne? She won’t let me go to prison for something she knows I didn’t do.”

Glen loosened his tie and sat gingerly in the polka dot chair.

“Waverly Nelson is registered as a student at the school in Switzerland. But no one seemed to have any idea if she has actually been there. She is not in attendance now. Her parents have flown to Europe in search of her, but they have been less than cooperative so far, so I doubt they’d bring her back to testify even if they do find her.”

“What about Jennifer? She knows I never set eyes on Jon-Don Parker until that night. She’s a pill, but I’m sure she’ll help if she knows how important it is. What about Mike and Tooter? And Jimmy? I know he’s my friend.”

Glen’s expression was pained. “Jennifer Rhodes was last seen boarding a plane to Mexico. We can’t find any evidence that the men you call ‘Mike’ and ‘Tooter’ ever existed, and James Rodriguez no longer works for the San Diego Department of Sanitation. His aunt claims to have no knowledge of his whereabouts, and he apparently left his last known residence in extreme haste.”

“But Jimmy was in San Diego a couple of weeks ago! I know he was there. Jonathan interviewed him.”

“Kahn? That slimeball who broke in here?”

“He’s the editor of the
San Diego Sentinel
. I work—used to work—for him.”

“When did your former employer give you this tidbit of information?” Plantagenet said in a cold voice. “And when did you decide to communicate with the press?”

“I didn’t! Jonathan told me about Jimmy the day he was here.”

“Was that before or after you beat him up?” Plantagenet said.

“I can’t see how that’s relevant, Plant,” Glen said. “At least she finally told us. At the moment it’s the only lead we have. This Kahn character has been leaving messages at my office for weeks. I haven’t returned them. I assumed he was just one more bloodthirsty reporter. But maybe he’s got something that can help us.”

“I doubt it,” Plantagenet said, collapsing on the couch. “I doubt Kahn has helped anyone in his life. He’s such a bottom-feeder that no publication on the east coast will have anything to do with him. The only reason he’s working at all is that Angela Harper wanted to get in his pants, so she bought him his own little newspaper.”

Like she bought you your own little theater, Camilla wanted to say, but she didn’t.

Plantagenet went on, telling the story to Glen.

“Poor Angela. Kahn threw her over as soon as the paper got going. Dumped her for some tough-bitch little reporter half his age, according to Angela. And he’s no friend of Camilla’s, I can tell you. He wrote a piece on her for the
Guardian
when she was Deb of the Year that was so vicious it barked. The man is poison.”

Glen laughed as if Plantagenet had said something funny. Camilla tried not to react to the reference to the ‘tough-bitch little reporter.’

Who could it be? There was the brunette who covered the police news. She was plump, but sexy. Or maybe it was someone new. She’d been away a long time.

She wished she didn’t care so much.

“How’s Angela doing these days?” Glen said. “She’s made herself pretty scarce since the prelim.”

“You can’t blame her,” Plant said. “It’s difficult to make Camilla out to be a feminist heroine under the circumstances. Besides, Angela is fighting for the Chicano cause these days. She’s supporting Juan Carlos de Cabro for State Senate.”

Glen laughed again. “That guy’s about as Chicano as I am. His father’s a banker in Madrid, and I heard he’s a cousin of the Duchess of Cordoba.”

“That would explain why Angela has moved back to Beverly Hills,” Plant said. “She said it was to re-establish her ties with the big names to get support for his campaign. Also, apparently, it’s to keep her lover in the style to which he is accustomed. Her revolutionary image doesn’t go over so well in the ’80’s.”

Plant’s tone with Glen was light and bantering. Camilla couldn’t remember the last time he’d used that comfortable tone with her.

“I should give that Kahn guy a call about Rodriguez,” Glen said. “I’ll call him tomorrow. But hey, what about dinner? I thought you said you were going to feed me.”

“What have we got in the fridge, darling?” Plant said over his shoulder.

“Just a couple of Lean Cuisines.” She hoped they’d go for some take-out so she could hide her work before she had to clear the typewriter off the kitchen table.

“How can you eat that airplane food?” Glen sprang to his feet. “Why don’t I run down to the Safeway? You haven’t lived until you’ve tasted my fettuccine, Mr. Smith.”

“No need, Mr. Jones. I’ll get some pizza.” Plant followed him to the door.

“Honestly, I’d enjoy it,” Glen said. His laughter seemed warm and sincere. “Cooking helps me relax.”

“If you insist. There’s a little market where you can get fresh pasta a few blocks down on—oh, let me show you.” Plant patted Glen’s shoulder.

They seemed to have become very good friends.

“No.” Glen said, pulling gently away. “Stay here and keep Camilla company. She must get lonely here all by herself day after day.”

There had been lots of times when Camilla had wished Plant would remember that. This was not one of them. But Glen closed the door and Plantagenet settled in comfortably as she looked helplessly at the typewriter.

“How are your rehearsals going?” She left the table and sat on the couch next to him. “Has your temperamental leading man settled down?”

Plant laughed. “I think he’ll make a great Alexander, but he’s a snotty little prima donna. He’s started a feud with the choreographer that—oh, I don’t want to talk about it, darling. No use stewing.”

“It sounds as if you are stewing.”

But he didn’t reply. Instead, he picked up Glen’s
L. A. Times
from the coffee table and, in a moment, started laughing out loud.

“Listen to this, darling. This woman is brilliant. Here’s a letter from some poor old thing who complains that her husband lives like a mountain man and never bathes and keeps all his money in filthy pillow cases he insists they sleep on. She signs it, ‘Can’t Take It Anymore in California’.” He leaned back and smiled. “Now, here’s the answer:

‘Dear Can’t Take It: Oh, yes you can take it—or at least half of it—since California is a community property state. May Dr. Lavinia suggest that you take half that dirty money out of those disgusting pillowcases and put it in a good, strong suitcase and fly immediately to Nevada for a nice clean divorce? If that idea doesn’t appeal to you…’”

Plant was laughing so hard he had to stop.

She could bear it no longer. She recited the end of the letter in a quiet voice:

“If that idea doesn’t appeal to you, the weather in Acapulco is lovely at this time of year. Very Truly Yours, Dr. Lavinia’.”

Plantagenet looked puzzled. “You’ve read it already?”

“In a manner of speaking,” she said. “I wrote it.”

His eyes widened as he sat silent for a moment.

“Camilla, have you gone completely out of your mind? This was written by Dr. Lavinia. She’s a syndicated columnist. She’s about a hundred and ten years old.”

Camilla got up and walked to the kitchen table. She slid the envelope from under the typewriter and presented it to Plantagenet. She longed to make him understand that she was not the helpless child he imagined—that she had a job, and she was good at it. She watched his face as he studied the contents of the envelope.

He covered his face with his hands and sat very still. She tried to give him a reassuring hug, but he barely responded. He finally turned to her, his face full of pain.

 “My God, Camilla! I have no idea who you are, do I? I don’t know you at all.”