Randall #01 - The Best Revenge

by Anne R. Allen

  As angry with herself as she was with Jonathan, she slammed her foot on the accelerator. As she did so, her mug fell off the dashboard and dumped a half a cup of coffee on her lap.

  Jonathan grabbed a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her, but it had very little effect on the mess.

  “You’re also a lady who’s damned good at getting her way,” he laughed. “Drop me off at the corner and go home and change. But remember you’re already late. I can’t start giving you special privileges. We’ve got to keep this thing out of the office.”

  “Yes, Mr. Kahn.”

  She wished she had a better idea of what “this thing” was.

  She was relieved not to meet Violet as she dashed into her apartment. She did, however, nearly collide with a huge rectangular object in the middle of the living room. It seemed to be a television, of the ancient “console” variety, painted orange. Jimmy had been at work again.

  After a quick shower, she threw on the first thing she could pry out of her tiny closet. It was the Jessica McClintock dress that Violet disapproved of for her “date” with Jimmy. She curled her hair and did her face in record time, but nevertheless, she knew she was awfully late when she trudged up the stairs to the office.

  ~

  “And who are you supposed to be this morning?” Stuart said when he saw her at the coffee machine: “Little Bo-Peep?”

  She filled her cup and said nothing.

  “You’re lucky Genghis is in a good mood this morning, or Dr. Lavinia would be history. You know what time it is?”

  “Mr. Kahn is in a good mood?”

  “Well, a reasonable facsimile thereof. As close as he gets. Which is surprising, since the guy looks like he was in a barroom brawl last night. But I guess he’s pretty excited about Bob’s story.”

  “Yes, Bob’s story.”

  She had almost let herself forget.

  “Bob’s story. Bob’s bombshell, I should say. That man is truly awesome. First he found out about this piece of evidence—a scrap of paper with the word ‘camel’ and a phone number written on it—that nobody else has even mentioned.”

  Camilla filled her cup and tried not to listen, but Stuart went on.

  “…then he found out the phone number belonged to some La Jolla socialite who was slumming in Ocean Beach last summer, who just happens to have moved out the day after Jon-Don Parker croaked. And nobody’s seen her since. Also…”

  Stuart moved in, smelling of Listerine and coffee.

  “This socialite seemed to have had a wild party the night before she disappeared. And guess who the neighbors swear they saw going into the party? None other than Mr. Jon-Don Parker! Not bad detective work, huh?”

  Camilla’s hands trembled. Her head pounded.

  I think I am a camel.

  “Bob still hasn’t figured out what the word ‘camel’ means, but his theory is—hey, you just gotta read the story. It is so damned brilliant!”

  “I’ve got a column to write.

  Behind another camel.

  She clutched her cup in both hands to keep it steady as she escaped.

  Who isn’t really there.

  Back at her desk, Camilla tried to think things through. This would be terrible for Wave. God knew what Captain Nelson would do now the story of the party was out. But for herself, she felt a strange relief. Once the whole story had been told, she wouldn’t have to hide things any more. After all, it was just a coincidence that Jon-Don had stopped by their party the night he died, and nothing so terrible went on. A few drugs. Everybody’s parties had drugs.

  ~

  By afternoon, Dr. Lavinia was in control:

  “Dear Dr. Lavinia: When my husband and I were married, we were both vegetarians, but for several years now, he has been secretly eating meat. Recently, he’s been eating it right in front of me. Last night I was physically ill after watching him eat a dead chicken while I was trying to enjoy my cabbage and lentils. I told him he could do what he wanted, but not in our house. Don’t you think meat eaters, like smokers, should be polite enough to indulge their filthy habit outside? —Still Care About My Body.”

  “Dear Mrs. Body: Dr. Lavinia is happy for you that you are fond of your own body, because she fears your husband may not be around to show an interest in it in the near future. She is intrigued by your suggestion that people whose tastes are different from our own be sent out-of-doors. Dr. Lavinia herself is not at all fond of Salisbury steak. She would prefer not to dine with someone who is eating that gruesome concoction of overcooked hamburger and limp onions. She would be gratified if restaurants would provide “No Salisbury Steak” seating. Dr. Lavinia also particularly dislikes cabbage and lentils. Very Truly Yours, Dr. Lavinia.”

  Camilla looked dreamily in the direction of Jonathan’s office, not for the first time today. What she had just written about the Salisbury steak wasn’t exactly true, of course. Watching Jonathan eat Salisbury steak last night was not unpleasant at all. It was sexy and exciting. Like everything about last night. Or it must have been, since she felt such a glow when she thought about it. Of course she wished Jonathan hadn’t said that strange stuff about her “real self” this morning, but she was sure he’d change his mind when they got to know each other better.

  She was startled by loud shouts from the news department, where everyone seemed to be gathering around Bob at the coffee machine. Jonathan opened his office door and grinned. She decided it was time for a coffee refill, more because she wanted to see Jonathan than because she really cared about some new bit of gossip.

  But Jonathan had closed his door again before she was halfway across the room.

  Stuart handed her the coffee pot.

  “Outstanding news. Bob’s story is all over the wires. And they’ve found a witness who backs up every word he said. Some guy in La Jolla—a solid-citizen, retired-Navy type. He’s telling the police everything. They think he even knows the identity of Bob’s ‘camel’.” Stuart beamed. “This Navy guy said the person called Camel was probably Jon-Don’s drug connection.”

  Camilla leaned on the counter as her head roared. Why would Captain Nelson tell such stupid lies?

  “Not only that,” somebody else said. “But they’ve located True, the girlfriend, and it looks as if she’s going to substantiate Bob’s story, too.”

  Camilla thought of True’s jealous raging the night of the party. This couldn’t be good.

  Stuart laughed. “‘True’. How’s that for the name of a good witness? The woman’s been in a drug rehab hospital in Orange County the whole time—using her real name, which is Gertrude Goldblatt. I guess that means we have to forgive the poor woman her pretentious nickname.”

  “Hey, kids, recess is over,” Julie said. “The boss has one word for you: deadline.” She gave Bob a friendly slap on the back. “Congratulations, hot-shot.”

  Camilla watched people scurry back to their desks. But she couldn’t go. It was time to tell Jonathan the truth.

  She heard Julie whisper something like, “No, Randy, not now,” as she passed her desk, but she couldn’t wait another minute.

  Jonathan was talking on the telephone as usual. Camilla politely studied a framed photograph of him with Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden while she waited at the door to his office.

  After a few minutes, he acknowledged her with a quick look.

  “Sorry, I’ll have to ask you to hold just second,” he said to the phone. “Can’t it wait, Camilla? This is an important call.”

  “This is kind of important, too,” she said.

  “Is it about your column?”

  “No, but…”

  “I told you I don’t want to bring this into the office. We’ll talk about it tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Oh, no, not tonight. I’m going to be tied up. Uh—this weekend. I’ll call you.” He took his finger off the button. “Sorry about that,” he said to the telephone, which was obviously so much more important than she was.

  She mana
ged to get out of the office before he saw her face.

  I’ll call you. Couldn’t he have done better than that? Everybody knew that in the language of the male, “I’ll call you,” meant roughly the same thing as “I hope you get run over by a truck.”

  Well, she hoped Jonathan Kahn would get run over by a truck, too. A big one.

  Back in her cubicle, she composed herself and decided to look on the bright side. At least Jonathan let her know how he felt before she bared her soul about Jon-Don Parker. What was it Plantagenet said about him the first time she met Jonathan? “Look but don’t touch, Camel, darling.” Why hadn’t she listened?

  She turned her attention to the column again, trying to ignore another commotion in the news department. The noise was distracting, but she didn’t look up. If it was about a development in the “camel” story, she was sure to hear soon enough. She had only a few more sentences to type before she could go home.

  “Dear God, darling, I had no idea they made you work so hard,” said a voice above her.

  She looked up and saw, behind a huge bouquet of red roses, resplendent in up-to-the-minute Armani, a radiant, smiling Plantagenet Smith.

  “Plantagenet! Oh, my God, Plant!” She hugged the roses, and then Plantagenet—feeling happy and sad and confused all at the same time. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ve come to ask you to dinner,” he said, taking one of her hands and kissing it. “And then, it you haven’t any other plans for the weekend, I wondered if—” He stopped and gave her a sheepish look.

  “Yes, you wondered if…” she repeated helpfully.

  “I wondered if—you’d like to go somewhere and get married?”

  Chapter 20—Dinner for Four

  Camilla stood next to Plantagenet, clutching roses, in the cramped entryway of a small, trendy restaurant in Hillcrest. They’d been waiting for at least fifteen minutes, and people were crowding in behind them. She probably should have left the roses in the car, but they seemed a necessary part of the celebration.

  They’d come in separate cars because she didn’t want to leave the Edsel in the high-crime Gaslamp Quarter, so they hadn’t had time to talk about much.

  Like where Angela Harper was.

  Or what Plant meant about getting married.

  A waiter beckoned them from a dimly lit table.

  “You’ll find the dinner worth the wait, darling,” Plantagenet said. “They have an avocado mousse to die for.”

  “May I put those in water for you, Mademoiselle?” The waiter directed a smile more at Plantagenet than Camilla.

  “Yes. There are so many of them.” She handed him the huge bouquet.

  “Twenty, to be exact,” Plantagenet said. “That’s how many you were supposed to get on your birthday, but the number seemed to have been reduced to twelve somewhere between New York and San Diego. I’ve been in New York. Did I tell you that?”

  “My birthday! The roses? They were from you? The card wasn’t signed, and my name was spelled wrong, so what I thought was…”

  “What I think is I’d better change florists, darling,” Plantagenet said, kissing her cheek quickly as he helped her remove her coat. “But that does explain it.”

  “Explain what?”

  Plant picked up the wine list.

  “Violet seemed to think your birthday roses were from somebody named Jamey.”

  Camilla felt like Alice after she fell down the rabbit hole.

  “Are you talking about my neighbor Violet? When did you meet Violet?”

  “Last night. I stopped by, hoping to surprise you after work, but you must have been putting in some serious overtime. I waited a few hours, but after the rain let up, I went over to the theater where they’re reviving a couple of my one acts.”

  “Oh, yes, last night,” she raised her menu to hide her warming cheeks. “Yes. I was busy with—my boss. I’m sorry you had to wait for nothing.”

  “Don’t apologize, darling. I watched Now, Voyager dubbed in Spanish on your TV and was well fed by Mrs. Rushforth. Quite a character, isn’t she?”

  She nodded. “It works? The TV?”

  “As long as you only watch the Tijuana channel. The knob seems frozen there. You’ve never turned it on?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know how to explain Jimmy the garbage man.

  “Violet did say something about this Jamey person who had just delivered a television. At first I assumed he was a repairman, but I take it he’s one of your suitors?”

  “He’s Wave’s boyfriend, not mine: Waverly Nelson—my friend from Rosewood.”

  She tried to sound casual. She felt so strange sitting in a restaurant with Plant as if nothing had changed since she was a college student.

  “Oh, good, I am relieved. I’d rather not have to contend with a rival who gives you television sets, even if they are painted Day-Glo orange.”

  “Rival?” She tried to laugh. “Rival for what?”

  “For your hand, my dear.” He picked up her left hand and brought it to his lips.

  Just then the roses, arranged in an immense glass vase, descended upon the table between them. Plantagenet told the waiter they would have a chardonnay, some avocado mousse to start and the warm duck salad.

  Camilla moved the roses to one side so she could see Plantagenet’s face. It was a wonderful face. She was honestly happy to see him again. Even if he wasn’t making sense. She held out her hands to him across the table.

  “You can have both my hands,” she said. “If you’ll tell me what this is all about.”

  “What this is about—” He kissed one hand and then the other. “Is that I love you. As I think I have mentioned before. But since the last time turned out rather badly, I thought I’d better take a more traditional approach. I want to marry you, Camilla. Soon. And—the wine’s here.”

  She watched the ritual uncorking and wine tasting while her head whirled.

  “If you mean what you just said…” She took a sip. “Why haven’t you written? Or called? Why are you having an affair with Angela, for God’s sake? Why have you been such a—bastard?”

  She looked away after the last word.

  “You have been, you know.”

  “Such a lot of questions, darling.” Plant smiled and reached for her hand again, kissing her fingertips. “But I will try to answer them. Let’s see. Why am I a bastard? Born that way, I’m afraid. Wrong side of the blanket and all that. The Smiths of Perth Amboy aren’t my real parents. Those dreary, admirable people gave me the name of John Smith. Can you blame me for changing it? I chose ‘Plantagenet’ after playing Henry II in a college production of Becket—but I suppose that’s neither here nor there, is it?”

  She nodded, trying to be patient.

  He went on. “I know nothing of my real parents except that my mother died bringing me into the world, and I’ve been destroying people’s lives ever since.”

  The mousse arrived.

  “I wish you’d stop being funny and answer my questions,” she said.

  “It’s all quite serious. I’m afraid I’ve hurt rather a lot of people.”

  “You mean Angela Harper?”

  He looked pensive for a moment before breaking into a smile. “No,” he said. “Not Angela. I’ve been using her, of course, but she’s using me, too. It’s the one relationship I don’t feel guilty about.”

  “Do you feel guilty about me?”

  “Yes, I feel guilty about coming on to a sweet, naïve girl who regarded me as a trusted friend and leaving her alone in a storm in a dangerous neighborhood in New Jersey. Yes. I have a bit of guilt about that.” His face was full of anguish.

  “It was my fault, partly,” she said, wanting to help. “I was weirded out because I was afraid…”

  She wondered how to begin the story of Lester Stokes.

  “Afraid. Yes. You were afraid of me, Camilla. And you had every right to be. That night, riding a Greyhound back to the City, I took a long, hard look at myself, and I didn’t lik
e what I saw. I decided not to go groveling back to Edmund—not to go on using him. I flew to California instead. Got myself a paying job. The stuff they pay me to write is drivel, but it’s more than I’ve written in years. And I’m supporting myself. Not living off an old queen, or—or trying to seduce a rich debutante so she’ll marry me.”

  Camilla’s mouth went dry.

  “But you can’t mean—” Her words came out in a sputter. “When you got weird and kissed me—that was about money? That’s all you cared about?”

  “Oh, no, darling. It wasn’t all I cared about. But it was so damned convenient: you and all that Randall money. But then it went wrong. I saw that terror in your eyes. I never want you to be afraid of me again, Camilla. Never.”

  He took her hand again. She studied his long, perfectly manicured fingers and thought of Jonathan’s thick, ink-stained ones and wondered if it was wise for a woman to give her hand—or any other part of herself—to any man.

  The waiter arrived with their dinners.

  “Camilla, I’m so sorry,” Plant said. “This is coming out wrong. What I wanted to tell you is that I’m trying to change. Have changed. Going back to New York helped me sort things out. I’ve finished the book for Alexander! Darling, Edmund and I—”

  “You’re back with Edmund!” Something was finally getting back to normal.

  “Not as lovers—as collaborators. He’s found an air-brained little tenor who makes him blissfully happy, so we have no problems there. And he is a magnificent composer. The score for Alexander! is some of his best work, ever.”

  “Fantastic. I know how long you’ve been dreaming about your Alexander script.” Maybe he really had turned over a new leaf.

  “It’s going to be a fantastic show. We’re trying out in L.A., then taking it to New York. I’ve lined up some big L.A. money.”

  L. A. money. “So that’s what you meant about using Angela?”