Randall #01 - The Best Revenge (3 page)

The knob on the door jiggled.

“Hey, there, you little tease. This is getting old…”

Her head roared as she leaned with all her weight against the door.

“Open this door!”

She could feel the doorknob turn.

Chapter 3—Back to the Closet

Camilla felt the cold mahogany of her bedroom door against her naked back, as the doorknob jiggled.

“What the hell are you playing at, honey?” said Lester Stokes. “I can buy and sell you and your mama a thousand times over. You better get your head straight.”

She couldn’t catch her breath, even to scream. Thank goodness the lock held.

“Well, to hell with you, then,” said Mr. Stokes. “I am not playing games with a girl who’s Looneytunes.”

She heard his footsteps thump down the hall back toward the east wing.

As she remembered how to breathe again, she finally relaxed the grip she had on her chest and realized she still clutched Mr. Stokes copy of the
Guardian
. She stared at the photographs, wishing for the awful noise in her eardrums to stop—until she realized the sound came from the telephone on her nightstand. She rushed to answer it.

“Camel? Is that you?” said Plantagenet’s voice.

She erupted in tears. Big sobby tears. She couldn’t stop.

“I understand, darling. I do. It was a vicious attack. I’m so very sorry. I wish I could have stopped it.”

She’d heard of ESP between close friends, but this was amazing. “I think I’m safe now. There’s nothing you could have done, and it was partly my fault—”

“Edmund does keep a handgun.”

She sniffed back the tears. “No, don’t shoot anybody. I’m pretty sure there are laws against it, even when the person you’re shooting is an insect in a people-suit.” She glanced at the door, praying the ancient lock would hold if Mr. Stokes changed his mind.

“And there are laws against libel. As decorative Mr. Kahn seems unaware.”

“Mr. Kahn?” He wasn’t making sense. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sure the
Guardian
will ban him from the society pages after this.”

She glanced at Mr. Stokes’ paper and for the first time, read the words:

POOR PEOPLE ARE BORING SAYS TOP DEB. “Camilla Randall, 19-year old great-granddaughter of newspaper baron H. P. Randall, drains her third glass of champagne of the afternoon, closes her heavily-made-up eyes and makes the pronouncement: ‘Poor people are boring.’ Ms. Randall, who was named by several New York publications as last season’s Debutante of the Year, is wearing a Porfirio original of a cashmere knit that leaves little of her curvaceous figure to the imagination. She has long, silken blonde hair, large blue-green eyes, and a full, luscious mouth that seems permanently set in a pout. Although she ‘loves’ parties and nightclubs, Ms. Randall wants to be a journalist…”

“Camilla? Camel? Are you there?” Plantagenet’s voice called from the receiver.

“It’s horrible,” she said, hurling the paper across the room. “He makes me sound like a tramp. With the I.Q. of a gerbil. I could just die.”

“But you mustn’t, darling. You must go on. Try to ignore it. I thought maybe I could help. I know you’re leaving tomorrow, but I could come out—”

 “Yes, please. Right away! I’ve got to see you…” Her voice broke as she thought of having to face Mr. Stokes at the luncheon table.

“I’ll be there as soon as the commuter train and a Darien taxi will carry me. I’m afraid Edmund has confiscated the Mercedes. We’ve had a little tiff.”

~

Camilla tore off the traitorous nightgown, pulled on her oldest Calvins and baggiest sweater, then excavated under the bed for her luggage. She had to be ready as soon as Plantagenet arrived so she could leave for Rosewood today. She couldn’t spend another minute under the same roof as Lester Stokes.

Tidying the room, she gingerly picked up the
Guardian
again. Unfortunately, there seemed to be more of Kahn’s poisonous article on the other side of the fold.

“Ms. Randall claims to have a romantic arrangement with the jet-setting Prince Aldo di Saxi-Cadenti, but...”

Nasty, mean and snide.

She shredded the paper into small pieces and stuffed them into a wastebasket, trying to console herself with the fact he didn’t print any of his creepy stuff about her father being a suicidal criminal.

~

Sometime later, a knock at the door made her jump. She threw on her fuchsia-dyed mink bomber jacket. Even with the baggy sweater, she didn’t feel covered.

“Who is it?” She checked to make sure the chair was still wedged under the doorknob. Mother ought to be home by now, but she wasn’t taking any chances.

“It is Despina, Miss Camilla. Madame is angry you did not tell her another guest is arrived for luncheon.”

Camilla moved the chair and opened the door. Despina, wearing an apron over a five-year-old Halston, looked harried.

“Yes. Also is Mr. Smith here. Madame says what are you going to do with him?”

“Plantagenet is here? Thank God. Is Mother with that Chickenburger person?”

“Yes. He is most demanding. I told her last time he was here. I do not put branches in the bourbon. He gets olive, twist or cherry like anybody else.”

“Last time? Lester Stokes has been here before?”

“Oh yes. In fact he came the day that Mr. Randall…” Despina stopped herself. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t speak of it.”

“That man was here the day my father died?”

Despina nodded. “They were to ride after luncheon. Mr. Stokes went to the stables with your father, but he perhaps changed his mind. He came back huffy-puffy and drove away.”

 Lester Stokes did some sort of business with her father on the day he died. Camilla thought of Jonathan Kahn’s accusations. Had Stokes tried to get her father involved in something criminal? She wouldn’t be surprised. Maybe that’s why Dad hadn’t been careful with the gun. Maybe Mr. Stokes had made him angry too.

Whatever had transpired, she refused to be in the same room with Mr. Stokes again—ever. She surveyed her room. Most of the floor was still scattered with discarded clothes, but her matched Vuitton cases were neatly packed.

She was ready to go.

“Please send Mr. Smith up and tell Mother that neither of us will be having luncheon.”

~

When she opened the door to Plant’s knock, Camilla could see something was amiss. The always-elegant Plantagenet wore a distinct stubble of beard, and a suit wrinkled enough for the impossible Jonathan Kahn.

She couldn’t blurt out her troubles now; he obviously had his own.

“You look so sad and—rumpled,” she said. Was it a bad fight with Edmund?”

“It wasn’t a good one.” He squeezed her in a bear hug. “My darling Camel,” he looked her up and down. “It is a sad and rumpled world out there, and obviously, we’re both dressed appropriately.”

“I didn’t want to look, well…”

Would he understand how the Mr. Stokes thing made her want to go out and buy a nun’s habit?

“‘Curvaceous’ or ‘luscious’?” Plantagenet kissed her forehead. “My dear Camel, just because the odious Mr. Kahn couldn’t take his eyes off your figure is no reason to dress as if you didn’t have one.”

“Do I look hideous? I could change.”

“You look beautiful. But I’m not sure I’d choose the pink mink with that outfit…”

She tore off the jacket and threw her arms around him.

“I love you, Plantagenet.” She hugged him tightly.

“I love you, too, Camilla. I wish you knew how much.” He kissed her forehead and gently pressed his lips on each damp eyelid. “Please don’t cry any more, darling. Jonathan Kahn is not worthy of your tears.”

She had to tell him. “

It’s not about Mr. Kahn’s stupid article. My mother has this friend…” How did she explain the ickiness with Mr. Stokes?

“You can’t feel guilty about the strings your mother can pull, darling. I personally am very happy that Jonathan Kahn will never write for a newspaper again.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve spoken to Mother about the article?”

“Just now. Downstairs with Colonel Sanders. Your mother has lots of friends.  Powerful friends. We won’t be hearing from Mr. Kahn for quite some time.”

So her mother had silenced the relentless Mr. Kahn. Was it because of his cruel remarks, or because he was digging up dirt about Dad? Camilla wished she could talk to her mother about it—to know for sure that Dad wasn’t involved in this horrible Savings and Loan thing. But she couldn’t talk to Mother about anything these days.

Plant gave her a squeeze and she felt sniffly again.

“It’s not Mr. Kahn I’m crying about. It’s the Chickenburger person. He treated me like a hooker…”

“I’m sure that’s the way they treat all women in the trailer park he grew up in, darling. The man is not exactly our sort,” Plant laughed. He absently started picking up her discarded clothes and hanging them in the closet.

“Please, you’ve got to take me away from here! I can’t spend another minute in this house. Let’s drive to Virginia today. Together. You can fly back tomorrow.”

“I’d love to, darling.” Plant gave a lopsided grin. “But I’m afraid I’m a little short of cash—and Edmund has confiscated the credit cards.”

She hugged him tightly. “I have plenty. Please come. I need you. Really. Plant.”

He gave her another kiss—a longer one this time, sweet and soft. Why couldn’t she meet a straight man who could kiss like that?

 Plant retrieved a Perry Ellis dress from the floor and hung it carefully on a hanger.

“Only if we’re taking the DeLorean,” he said. “And you have to let me drive.”

“I’m absolutely taking the DeLorean. It’s all I have left of…Dad.” She choked on the word. “He never had time to spend with me. Now I think I never knew him at all.”

“Maybe no one did,” Plantagenet said quietly. “Maybe he didn’t want them to. Some people are like that.” He hung an Yves St. Laurent gown over his arm and stooped to pick up its matching jacket.

“But why?”

“Some people can’t say who they really are—even to themselves,” he said, as he carried his burden slowly back to the closet.

~

Camilla wrote a quick note for Despina to give to her mother.

“Decided to leave early,” she wrote. “To avoid the snowstorm.”

She figured a simple lie was preferable to the complicated truth.

It was probably best forgotten. After all, she wasn’t likely to run into Mr. Stokes again. He was not—as Plant put it—their sort.

~

A few hours later, as they zoomed across the Tappan Zee Bridge, singing along with a staticky-radio Bruce Springsteen, the incident with Mr. Stokes had faded to a kind of icky dream world, along with all the other horrible things she didn’t want to think about—like her father and the banking scandal.

But one image wouldn’t go away. Mr. Stokes in the barn with her father. The gun. She was sure the toxic Mr. Stokes was capable of anything. She buried the picture as far down in her brain as she could. It didn’t bear thinking about.

At first she hoped she could talk about Lester Stokes with Plant, but he was working so hard to keep the mood cheerful, she hated to bring up something so nasty.

She’d never been able to tell Plant about the bad sex with Aldo, either. Some things were too embarrassing to talk about.

Which must have been the way he felt about his fight with Edmund, because he still hadn’t explained his rumpled condition.

“Tramps like us, baby, we were born to…damn.” Plantagenet eyed the other side of the Hudson with dismay. “I’m afraid we haven’t missed the storm, after all.”

The landscape looked as if it were about to be swallowed by a dark, malevolent cloudbank. Large, wet flakes gathered on the windshield and traffic slowed as the snow continued and night approached. By the time they reached New Jersey, Plantagenet’s body was hunched with tension as he tried to make out the road ahead. The radio still played, but it had become an annoying distraction. Camilla punched a button, hoping to hear a local weather report, but instead, a deep-voiced country singer sang something painfully sad about trucks. His accent sounded so much like Lester Stokes’ that she clicked off the radio with a shudder.

Plantagenet gave a sudden howl so loud that she immediately restored the radio to the suffering trucker. But he didn’t seem to be shouting about the radio.