“I—I don’t have a pen,” she said when she had finally waded through the pages of legal jargon. “I think I have one in my purse.”
“Please use mine.” Jonathan’s dimples showed again as he grinned. He pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and stood up slowly, reaching at the same time for the cane hooked over the arm of the chair. She hadn’t noticed the cane. He limped to where she sat. His ankle was no longer in a cast, but she could see that it was still bandaged.
She accepted the pen, spread the contract on the coffee table, and signed it in the three places indicated.
“Congratulations, Dr. Lavinia,” Jonathan said, still grinning. “You have just become a syndicated columnist.” He picked up the contract and handed her one of the copies. “And incidentally, you have saved a newspaper.” He extended his hand. “Thank you, Camilla. I can’t tell you how important this is to me.”
She took his hand. His expression was warm and sincere. Impulsively, she threw her arms around him in a friendly hug.
“It’s important to me, too, Jonathan. Thank you.”
But when she pulled back to look at his face, his smile was gone. His eyes stared into hers with an intensity that was almost frightening. His mouth was very close.
Their lips met with a violence that sent a shock through her whole body. She heard his cane clatter to the floor as his arms tightened around her. She clung to him like a person drowning. He still wanted her. She had to tell him she felt the same way.
“Please stay, Jonathan,” she whispered into the soft corduroy of his jacket.
He stepped back and smiled.
“Thanks for the offer. It’s nice to know I’ve been granted a second chance, but—some other time, OK? There are a few other things I need to talk to you about, and then I’ve got a meeting in San Diego at—”
“What other things?” She tried to sound casual as her face burned.
“Bob interviewed a man named James Rodriguez.” Jonathan reached for his notebook. “He had some surprising things to say about what went on at your party the night Parker died, and I hope you’ll be willing to clear up a couple of points.”
Her eyes burned with angry tears. That’s all he wanted her for—a damned story.
“You slug! You sleazy bastard! How could you?”
“How could I what? Turn you down?” He stood very still—all icy cool as he glanced at his notebook. “Not that it’s easy, Camilla. But I do have some instinct for self-preservation. Besides, right now, this is what’s important.”
She couldn’t stand to look at him.
“Right now, what’s important is that you get out of this house. Out!” She grabbed the notebook and threw it toward the door.
Balancing on his cane, Jonathan picked up the notebook and smoothed the pages with deliberate calm. His eyes were cold as his mouth curved into a mocking smile.
“Ms. Randall,” he said. “I happen to know that you are capable of rational thought. Do you think you could drop the bitch-in-heat act long enough to demonstrate that? There are worse things than not having every man you want. Like spending the rest of your life in prison.”
The words stung as if he’d hit her.
Before she could stop herself, she slapped him with such force that she winced with pain as her hand made impact with his cheekbone. But his expression didn’t even change. In blind fury, she swung again, but he immobilized her wrist in a painful grip. She tried to pull away, but his other hand grabbed her shoulder. She screamed as his fingers dig into her flesh.
“Let me go, you slug. Let go!” She kicked at him in blind fury.
With a gasp of pain, he released her and reached for his bandaged leg. But as he moved, he lost his balance and fell. His head made a noise as it hit the coffee table.
“All right, Kahn. That’s enough,” said a voice. Camilla looked up to see Plantagenet standing in the doorway. Beside him was D. Glendower Jones.
Mr. Jones was holding a gun.
“Darling, are you all right?” Plantagenet ran to her.
“She’s just fine.” Jonathan sat up slowly, holding a hand to the side of his face. “I’m the one who’s injured. That woman could hold her own against a Soviet tank.”
He reached for his cane and struggled to his feet. Blood trickled down his face. “Mr. Jones, would you put that thing away? Guns scare the hell out of me.”
“See if she’s all right, Plant.” Glen Jones didn’t take his eyes off Jonathan.
Plantagenet hugged her. “Darling, did he hurt you? Did he—do anything to you?”
She shook her head.
“Did I assault her, sexually or otherwise?” Jonathan pivoted on his cane to face them. “No. Quite the contrary, wouldn’t you say, Ms. Randall? Now if you’ll just hand me my things, I’ll make my escape. Thank you for rescuing me, gentlemen.”
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 t
he 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.”
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