Chapter 27—Footsteps in the Dark
Camilla sat on the black couch wearing a purple kimono and some uncomfortably tight jeans, the loosest pair in Franny’s closet. She flipped through the pages of the November Vogue for the tenth time. She loathed the scrawny, nasty-faced women who glared at her from the photographs, and she was feeling hostile toward the telephone, which would not ring, and Barbra Streisand, who was singing from the stereo about people needing people, and she was developing a strong dislike for Liza Minelli in her red dress—also dying dieffenbachia, red satin pillows, and polka dots.
Plus, at this very moment, she was having distinctly negative feelings about Plantagenet Smith.
He had forbidden her to leave the house. He was ridiculously paranoid to imagine some stranger might recognize her in the street, but she obeyed the order anyway. She also obeyed his order not to plug in the television, although she would have liked to hear some more news about Jonathan and the FBI. But Plant was right that hearing TV lies about her would be upsetting.
However, it also made her angry that in the three days since she’d been released from jail, Plantagenet had spent only a few hours with her. Today he hadn’t even called. She glared furiously at the telephone. Finally she decided it was safe to walk outside and check Franny’s mailbox.
She made the trip to the end of the path and found the box empty. When she returned, she spent several moments staring at the contents of the refrigerator until she realized she was not at all hungry. Finally, she slammed the door shut and once more perused Franny’s one shelf of books. She was trying to choose between The American Musical Theater and A History of Costume when she realized she had only one sensible course of action.
After peeking through the curtains to make sure that Plantagenet wasn’t walking down the path, she took Jonathan’s box from the closet shelf. And behind it, like some gift from the gods, she found, covered with dust, an old manual typewriter with the name “Frank Callahan” scratched on the side. Now Dr. Lavinia wouldn’t have to write longhand. She set up the machine on the table and went to work.
~
It was almost dark outside when she heard the sound of footsteps on the path. She yanked a completed letter from the typewriter, pushed it, with the rest of her work, under a stack of typing paper, rolled in a new sheet and wrote: “She was startled by the sound of footsteps in the dark.” She arranged herself in a pensive pose at the typewriter while composing a lovely lie to tell Plant about writing a mystery novel.
But she was surprised to hear the person outside knock, instead of coming right in. She hoped Plant hadn’t lost Franny’s one key.
But it wasn’t Plantagenet who stood in the doorway. It was a large, red-haired woman wearing overalls. She carried two familiar Vuitton suitcases.
“Hya Randy!” the redhead said in a booming voice. “Where do you want ’em?”
Camilla gratefully accepted the luggage and tried to remember where she had seen the woman before.
“Mr. Smith said to tell you he’ll bring more of your stuff later,” the woman said. “This is all I could fit in my car. I had to leave room for the props I’m borrowing from the L.A. Rep.”
“Props?”
“Plastic flamingos, mostly. Hey, have you got a beer? This L.A. traffic makes me hyper as hell.”
“Bernie. The “F” Street Theater!” Camilla blurted as she remembered. “Sorry. No beer. How about champagne?”
“Twist my arm.” Bernie flopped onto the couch and surveyed the room. “So—now we find Camel Randall, international playgirl, who, disguised as a mild-mannered reporter…”
Camilla stiffened as she poured herself champagne.
Bernie laughed heartily at her own joke. “Oh, before I forget, Julie wanted me to give you this.” She took a fat envelope from a pocket of her overalls.
“Julie? Does Julie know where I am?”
Did Jonathan? This could be awful.
“Nope. Nobody does. Mr. Smith is being real careful about that. In fact, he made me promise to go to the theater first and then here in case somebody followed me from San Diego. Just call me double-0-seven.” She gulped champagne. “He was totally hush-hush about asking me to come here. He cornered me alone in the prop room when everybody else was on stage. I even thought for a minute maybe he wanted something else. No such luck. Of course, he didn’t know that you and I are old buddies.”
Camilla ignored the presumptuous remark. “Did you tell him? That you and I—know each other?”
“There wasn’t time. Besides, I wasn’t sure. That’s why I called Julie—to find out if her reporter friend Randy was the Camel Randall on TV, because you sure look alike.”
“And you told her you were going to see me?”
“Of course not. Mr. Smith practically made me swear on the lives of my unborn children. And he paid me fifty bucks. Besides, I wouldn’t mouth off about something like this.” She drained her champagne glass and reached for the bottle. “Julie figured it out by herself. She’s one smart cookie. I guess I haven’t kept it a secret that I’ve had kind of a crush on Plantagenet Smith—sorry, I didn’t know he was taken when I met him. I heard he’d broken up with Angela, and…”
“No problem.” Camilla gave a smile, trying to hurry up the monologue.
“Anyway, I guess I said something to Julie about how pissed off I was that I had to go to L.A. today and miss seeing Mr. Smith, and then today, when I called and said I had seen the gorgeous Mr. Smith after all, and then I happened to ask if Camel Randall was the same person as her friend Randy, and the next thing I know, there she is at the theater, saying if by any chance I should happen to see you, I should give you the letter.”
She grabbed the bottle and gestured with it.
“So aren’t you going to open it?”
Camilla picked it up. “Did Julie say anything about—Mr. Kahn?”
“Old Genghis? Not that I remember, why?”
“No reason.” She wondered if the news wasn’t out about Jonathan and the FBI.
Inside the envelope she found a pile of letters for Dr. Lavinia, and a note scribbled in Julie’s handwriting:
“I hope you don’t mind that I saw through Bernie. Don’t worry. I won’t tell a soul. But we really need Dr. Lavinia! If you have any columns ready, just mail them to me at my home address. We can pretend I’m writing them, if you want. Is there any place where I can safely send Dr. Lavinia’s mail? (And your paycheck!) Let me know if there’s anything I can do. Hang in there!”
An address and phone number followed. Camilla wondered who “we” referred to. Did it mean Jonathan was OK, and not in FBI custody?
“Does Plantagenet know that Julie gave this to you?”
“No way. She’s all into the James Bond thing, too.” Bernie emptied the rest of the champagne into her glass. “Can I ask you something, Randy—or should I say Camel?”
“‘Camilla’, actually, is what you should say.” She never wanted to hear that nickname again.
“What I want to know is—what was Jon-Don like in bed?”
Camilla froze her face into a smile.
“Thanks so much for bringing my things, Bernie.” She walked deliberately to the front door and held it open.
“Sorry. Just had to ask,” Bernie drained her glass. “With what they’re saying about you two on TV—Oh, I forgot, I’m not supposed to talk to you about that stuff. Oh, yeah, and I’m supposed to tell you that Mr. Smith won’t be here tonight. He had to stay for the rehearsal down in San Diego. But he’ll call you in the morning.”
“Will he?” Camilla wondered for a moment if Angela would be there too, then decided she didn’t want to let her brain think about that. “Thank you, Bernie.”
She closed the door with more force than she probably needed, then picked up the letter and dialed the phone. Actually, it was good that Plantagenet was safely in San Diego. He had strictly forbidden her to call anybody.
“Julie, this is—Dr. Lavinia,” she said to the tired
voice that answered.
“Randy! Am I ever glad to hear from you! Are you OK?”
“I’m fine, I guess.” Camilla suddenly wanted to pour out her troubles to the friendly, concerned voice. “Sort of lonely and bored, though. I miss everybody. My fiancé doesn’t think I should talk to anybody, so my words won’t get twisted up by some reporter. In fact, I shouldn’t even be talking to you, but I got your note…”
Julie laughed. “Poor Bernie. She was trying to be such a good spy. But don’t worry. I’m sure no one else knows. In fact, one of the TV stations just broadcast some grainy video of somebody who looks like you in St Tropez. Mr. Kahn will be relieved to hear you called.”
“Jonathan—Mr. Kahn, is he all right?”
“Sure. He’s fine except that Angela is selling the paper, the FBI is harassing him, and Health-O-Mart has just pulled its Christmas advertising. But actually, I think he’s enjoying it. He thrives on crisis.”
“I heard he was arrested by the FBI?”
“Not arrested. But they want him to stop investigating the Camel—uh, Jon-Don Parker story.”
There was an awkward silence.
Julie continued after a moment. “You wouldn’t believe how many letters and calls we’re getting from ‘Living Well’ fans. ‘When is Dr. Lavinia going to be back in business? You are going to keep writing, aren’t you?’ Everyone here is sworn to secrecy, so nobody has to know. It might help you keep your mind off—things.”
Camilla couldn’t help feeling pleased.
“The Doctor is back. I’ve already got some columns to mail and I’ll have more by the end of the week. You can send the questions to, um, a friend of mine: Fran—uh—Frank Callahan.” She gave the address. “He’ll forward the mail to me.”
“Great! I’ll send everything on Thursday, along with your paycheck, and probably some stuff from Mr. Kahn. He’ll be so relieved. He really needs to talk to you. See, he found this witness who says that Jon-Don was…”
“Jonathan wants to interview me about Jon-Don?”
Camilla shuddered. She should have listened to Plant. Was this Dr. Lavinia stuff just Jonathan’s ploy to get her to give an interview?
“Dr. Lavinia is only accepting communications that concern her column. Nothing else. Is that quite clear?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“And no one is to have that address I gave you. That includes Mr. Kahn.”
“I promise to guard it with my life. Randy, I’m really sorry—”
“Goodbye, Julie.”
Jonathan was a sleaze. But Dr. Lavinia had a job. She would do it—Jonathan or no Jonathan. She took the stack of letters from the envelope Bernie brought, and returned to work.
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.
Randall #01 - The Best Revenge Page 20
