Randall #01 - The Best Revenge (33 page)

“That’s what you were doing with Angela that night? Breaking up with her? The tough-bitch journalist you told her you were in love with—that was me?”

“Yes, Camilla, God help me. The woman I’m in love with is you.” He set down his unfinished wine. “Let’s not get drunk tonight. And I promise not to spend half the night on the phone.”

~

The phone was ringing when they walked in the door of Jonathan’s apartment, but instead of rushing to answer it, he closed the door and put his arms around her.

“The phone,” she said. “Shouldn’t you answer it?”

“The machine’s on,” he said, giving her a kiss. “But if it will make you happier, I’ll turn up the speaker, just in case the Berlin Wall fell down or something. Outside of that kind of miracle, there’s not a lot that would seem important to me right now.” He turned a dial on the phone machine.

Violet’s voice blared from the speaker “…and tell Camellia her mother said she can do the Carson show, but on no account is she to play Las Vegas. Joanie thinks Las Vegas is vulgar. Now me—I’ve had some grand times in Vegas. My husband number three—what was that, Joanie?” Another voice started to speak in the background, then the call cut off abruptly.

“Oh, dear,” Camilla said. “Should we have picked up? It sounds as if Violet…”

“It sounds as if Violet is as crazy as ever,” Jonathan said. “You can call back if you want, but I didn’t I hear any bricks falling in Berlin.”

He pushed some buttons and Violet’s voice came on again.

“Jonny, this is Violet. I’m calling for Camellia, since I know she’s there. You two didn’t fool me one bit—pretending Jonny was sleeping on the sofa. I was just trying to save poor Planty’s feelings. But you better set the wedding date soon, with all that hanky panky going on. Just make sure it’s not the same day as my birthday party. That’s April the tenth, at the Hotel Del. You’d better be there, both of you. It’s real important. I’d like to tell you how important, but that would ruin the surprise.”

The voice kept going. “Anyhow, what I’m calling for is that these Carson people keep calling poor Joanie to ask if Camellia will be on the show. They say she’s going to be the new Goldie Hawn, and they loved her act on the six o’clock news. She’s got to call them. And tell Camellia her mother said that she can…”

Jonathan stopped the repeating tape with a click.

“So they all laughed at you?” he said. “Poor little Camilla, out there all by herself.” He nuzzled her neck. “You neglected to tell me you were playing it for comedy.”

“I was just being Dr. Lavinia. I thought it would be easier that way. But—my mother was there, Jonathan.” She looked at the machine. “When Violet was talking about hanky panky. She knows I’m here in your apartment. Maybe Violet’s right. We should get married right away.”

“Well, well,” Jonathan said with a grin. “Is that a proposal?”

Camilla felt blood rush to her cheeks.

Jonathan laughed. “I realize you’re only asking me because you know I’ll support you in the style to which you’re accustomed.” He gestured around at her dreadful furniture. “Or are you just trying to save the expense of moving your things?”

“I’m sorry. You see, my mother—

 “Leave your mother out of it,” he said firmly. He put a hand to her lips. “You just proposed to me, and before you can take it back, I’m going to tell you I accept.”

“You accept? You want to marry me, really?’

“I want to marry you, really.”

“Maybe I should call Mother back and tell her—”

“Your mother can wait. So can Violet. So can Jonny Carson.”

“Do you think I should go on his show?”

“I think you should do whatever you want, Camilla Randall. I’d be a damned fool if I thought anything else.”

Chapter 37—Living Well is the Best Revenge

April tenth, Violet’s birthday, dawned cold and foggy, but as Camilla drove the DeLorean over the Coronado Bridge, just before the appointed hour of six PM, the fog lifted and a brilliant sunset colored the sky above the bay.

“That’s got to be a good omen for Violet,” she said to Jonathan, who looked fantastic in his tux. “What do you suppose her big surprise is?”

“I don’t even want to think,” Jonathan said, tugging glumly at the starched collar beneath his bow tie.

She didn’t want him to be grumpy on Violet’s special day. “Come on, Jonathan. It will be fun. You’ve got to be used to Violet by now.”

“Yes, but I’m not used to Mrs. Lester Stokes.”

He had been upset since he heard that her mother was flying out for the party.

“The last time we had a run-in, she wrecked my career. That was just to punish me for sprinkling a society interview with some political content. I hate to think what she’ll do when she finds out I’m about to add a Jewish liberal branch to the Randall family tree.” He leaned over and nuzzled her neck.

 “Just don’t call her Stokes. She’s back to Joan Randall, since Lester died. But don’t worry—somehow Violet’s convinced her that you’re a suitable son-in-law. She’ll try to talk us into a huge wedding in Connecticut, of course, but maybe Violet can make her see the sense in getting married here.”

Violet’s influence on her mother had been even stronger since the recent
Forbes
article that listed Violet as the fifteenth richest woman in America. Husband number five had apparently been a real estate tycoon who left her substantial chunks of several major American cities.

Jonathan grimaced. “Do we have to let your mother manage our wedding? Couldn’t she take over something more befitting her talents, like running the air traffic controllers union, or managing the national debt? I know she needs a new project now that she’s killed off her husband…”

“Jonathan! Lester died of a heart attack.”

“A heart attack fueled by mass quantities of cholesterol-laden goodies provided by your mother, according to Violet. In fact, she seems convinced that Stokes murdered your father, and his death was just retribution.”

Camilla decided to let his remark rest. She didn’t want to get Jonathan’s reporter-nose sniffing around Lester’s demise.

Her mother had delivered justice in her own way.

 “Poor Violet.” Camilla patted Jonathan’s knee. “She lives in such a fantasy world. I don’t know what to expect at this party. The invitation did say black tie. I wonder if she knows what that means.” She smoothed the gold brocade skirt of the Yves St. Laurent gown she had resurrected from her debutante wardrobe.

“We’re only a few hours from Las Vegas. We could get married tonight after the party. We’re dressed for it. Tell the Queen Mother we’ve already made wedding plans. It wouldn’t be a lie, exactly.”

Camilla laughed and patted Jonathan’s knee again.

“Don’t be so afraid of my mom. I won’t let her feed you any fried chicken.”

As they pull into the parking lot, the multi-turreted Victorian hotel looked magical, bathed in the golden light of the sunset over the bay. Camilla breathed in the fresh sea air as Jonathan opened the gullwing door.

“Doesn’t it look like a castle out of a fairy tale?” she said.

“Yes.” He helped her out of the car and put an arm around her shoulders. “There’s the castle, and here’s the princess. I guess this is as close as I’ll get to ‘happily ever after’ so I’d better enjoy it.”

“Yes. You’d better.” She kissed his cheek. But his attention had turned to a familiar white Rolls Royce that was driving up to the canopied entrance to the hotel. A blond chauffeur emerged and opened the back door. Angela! Had she managed to get an invitation?

No. It wasn’t Angela Harper who stepped out of the Rolls. It was Plantagenet, looking his elegant best in an up-to-the minute Armani tuxedo.

She ran to give him a hug. She hadn’t heard much from him in the last few months, except a couple of cheery postcards, but he had been awfully busy now that
Alexander!
had been nominated for five Tonys.

“You look marvelous, darling.” He appraised her gown. “This gentleman must be treating you well.” He smiled stiffly at Jonathan.

“How are you, Smith?” Jonathan offered his hand. “Congratulations on your play. I hear it’s a major hit.”

“That’s got to be a St. Laurent, dear heart,” said a familiar voice from inside the Rolls. “You look stunning.”

“Franny!” She ran to the passenger window. “I didn’t know you were Violet’s friend, too.”

“Just along for the ride,” Franny said. “Hans and I thought we’d take in a play while you society people are whooping it up. They say
Twelve Picassos
at the F Street Theater is brilliant. Angela and Juan Carlos are in Cordoba meeting the Duchess, so Hans and I offered to drive Plant down here in the Rolls.”

Camilla glanced over at Plant, happily laughing with Jonathan.

“Plant thinks Violet is going to announce her engagement tonight,” Jonathan said.

“Any nominees for husband number seven?” said Plant, hooking her free arm.

The Crown Room was already packed, and an orchestra played Cole Porter as Camilla entered the grand ballroom with her two escorts.

Her mother stood with a group of elderly ladies in Sunday hats.

“These are some friends Violet met on the number twenty-four bus,” her mother said with only a little irony. She was dressed entirely in black. Long strands of jet beading caught the light as she moved. Her hair was several shades lighter than usual and cut very short. 

“You’ve lost weight,” her mother said as she appraised Camilla with a cool glance. I’m so glad. I thought you looked a little plump on Johnny Carson’s program.”

“It’s nice to see you, too, Mother.” She would never change.

“Joan! So lovely to see you again,” said Plant, stepping forward to smooth the waters. “I’d like to introduce Jonathan Kahn, the publisher of the
San Diego Sentinel
—”

“Jonny!” her mother said with an astonishingly warm smile. “I’m so pleased to meet you.”

“How do you do, Mrs. Stokes,” Jonathan said with a formal handshake.

“Joan, please,” said her mother. “After all, we’re going to be family, aren’t we Jonny? Now about the wedding…”

Before Camilla make sense of her mother’s use of the nickname “Jonny,” or her sudden warmth, they were all silenced by a roar of applause. The crowd parted to make way for the small, white-haired figure of Violet, dressed in a spectacular gown of mauve
peau de soie
. She entered the room on the arm of a portly man in a rumpled dinner jacket.

“I hope you approve of the gown, dear,” her mother said as she clapped. “You know how Porfirio hates purple, and we had the most awful time getting him to compromise on the mauve. I was terrified Violet would wander off and buy something off the rack.”

“That crazy old lady certainly has done herself proud,” Plantagenet said. “I can’t believe she’s really pulling this off.”

“Just a moment, Plant,” her mother said. “Violet is not crazy. Poor people are crazy. Millionaires are eccentric. Billionaires are trendsetters. Violet Rushforth is definitely a trendsetter. You’ll see.
Vogue
will be overflowing with mauve peau de soie next season…”

“We read that she’s now the country’s fifteenth richest woman,” Jonathan said.

“Fourteenth,” said her mother. “You’re going to have to learn to pay more attention to the obituaries, Jonny.”

A drum roll from the orchestra drowned the rest of his words as the rumpled man helped Violet climb the steps up to the stage that had been set up at one end of the grand room.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Violet said into the microphone. “I hope you’re all having fun helping me celebrate my eighty-fifth birthday. I’m up here making a fool of myself on account of I’ve got something else to celebrate tonight. I guess you all know I’ve spent the better part of the last twenty years looking for my grandson, the baby my daughter Rose had back when I disowned her on account of I was young and stupid.”

Jonathan pulled at his bow tie. “If some jerk is conning her, I’m going to kill the bastard.”

“Not if I kill him first,” said Plantagenet.

“I’m here to tell you I’ve finally found that baby,” Violet went on. “You want to come up here, Mr. Fink?” She gestured to the rumpled man, who climbed the two steps to the stage with creaky difficulty.

Jonathan whispered in Camilla’s ear. “How can that geezer be her grandson?”

“He’s got to be sixty-five if he’s a day,” Plantagenet said.

“Let’s just be polite for now.” Camilla tried to concentrate on what Violet was saying.

“Sherman Fink here is a private detective, and over a month ago, he gave me the proof I needed. It hasn’t been easy to keep my mouth shut this long, let me tell you.”

Jonathan draped an arm around Camilla’s shoulders as Violet launched into her story. “I hope this won’t be one of her long stories.”

“It seems that after Jacob Kane died—that was my daughter Rose’s husband…”

The crowd stood in uneasy silence as Violet told her rambling tale. A couple of times, Jonathan grabbed Camilla’s shoulder rather too tightly, but she didn’t respond. She didn’t want to encourage his skepticism.

“…the baby was sent to his cousin Harold, who spelled his name different, and then he died, too, so the baby was left with Harold’s widow, Esther, who never knew anything about my Rose, so little Jonny grew up not knowing any mother but his Aunt Esther, and he called himself Kahn, not Kane. To make a long story short, my grandson is here tonight, and I’d like him to come up here with me so you can all meet him.”

Jonathan’s face, which had gone pale at the mention of “Aunt Esther,” now turned crimson.

Violet grinned and reached out to him.

“Jonny, would you come up here with your old Grandma?”

Camilla’s head felt as if it had detached from her body.

Jonathan’s grip on her shoulder felt like a vice.

 “I can’t go up there,” he whispered. “Hell, I can’t even move.”

“Of course you can.” Camilla urged him toward the stage. But as she watched him move toward the stage, her mind whirled with confusion. Could any of that nonsense possibly be true?

Jonathan stepped up to the stage gasping like a caught fish. Violet put an arm around him and kept talking. She took what looked like an old black and white photograph from the rumpled detective and handed it to Jonathan.

“That’s Rosie, Jonnyboy. Your mom. Now wasn’t she a corker?” said Violet.

Jonathan looked as if he might cry.

“Do go up there and see that he doesn’t make a silly sentimental speech, Camilla,” her mother whispered. “Scenes like this can get so gooey.”

Camilla lurched toward the stage, but as she tried to negotiate the steps in her floor-length gown, she caught sight of a familiar, terrifying face in the crowd. There, sipping champagne and licking her lips like a satisfied cat, was the Dreaded Sybil D.D., hooked onto Plantagenet’s arm.  Feeling like the awkward sub-deb she’d always been in Sybil’s eyes, Camilla caught the toe of her beaded pump inside the hem of the stiff brocade of her skirt, and her already rubbery legs gave way.

“Camilla!” Jonathan’s voice boomed above her as she fell onto the stage with her feet dangling above the steps.

“A little much dear,” her mother whispered, close to her ear.

While Camilla scrambled to get herself into a more dignified position, Jonathan squatted on the stage floor beside her, his face lined with deep concern, Violet hovered above.

“What happened?” Jonathan said. “Are you all right?”

“Of course she’s all right. Camellia just fainted,” Violet said. “Now there’s a girl who knows how to react to a real good surprise.”

Camilla stood on wobbly legs and leaned on Jonathan as she descended from the stage.  There was no way to avoid the Dreaded Sybil as she came at them.

“Jonathan, so nice to see an old colleague,” said Sybil. “Would you and Camilla give me a short interview? How does it feel to discover you’re the heir of the country’s fourteenth richest woman?”

“Thirteenth,” said Violet. “You’ve got to learn to read the obituary page, Miss Fiddle Dee Dee.”